


On the Wall

by LindaO



Series: The Romanov Stories [8]
Category: The Equalizer
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindaO/pseuds/LindaO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Berlin Wall comes down, the Company celebrations in Berlin and New York include drinking, music, and a little light bondage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story stands alone, but is a continuation of my EQ-verse stories. In the timeline, it follows “White Russian Roulette”. The historical portions are more-or-less accurate. Free free to play along with the musical trivia game!

In November, 1989, in the midst of massive pro-democracy demonstrations, East Germany's government looked for ways to calm the revolt. Guenter Schabowski, their spokesman, announced that East Germany was lifting restrictions on travel across its border with West Germany. Asked by a reporter when the new regulation would take effect, Schabowski fumbled, then answered, "Well, as far as I can see … straightaway, immediately."

And the mother of all parties began.

***

_All in all you're just another brick in the Wall …_

 

Mickey Kostmayer watched the Gate intently. He didn’t need any night vision scope, not here: the two sides of the Berlin wall were lit up as bright as daylight, as always. There was a small crowd on the other side, milling, uncertain, and the East German guards seemed uncharacteristically uncertain as well. There was an awful lot of discussion going on. He could see one soldier in the guard shack, hanging almost frantically on the telephone. Whatever orders he was getting, he either didn’t like or didn’t understand.

Mickey lowered his binoculars and settled his shoulder against the brick chimney. He was on the roof of a Company safe house, two blocks from the main check-point in the Berlin Wall. Half a dozen other agents were with him, none with orders, all milling around like the civilians below. No one – no one – seemed to know exactly what was going on.

There was one thing, though, that Kostmayer was sure of: East German soldiers did not like uncertainty. It made them nervous. Which made them more likely to start shooting civilians. Which made Mickey nervous.

He raised the binoculars again.

The crowd of civilians was growing. The soldiers were becoming more agitated.

"Anything from the listening post?" he asked generally, without lowering the glasses.

"They’re still trying to sort out the orders." Ginger – it would be Ginger – had her own binoculars in one hand, a phone in the other. "They’re asking about a pass, isn’t there a pass, where do they get a pass."

Mickey sighed. C’mon, he thought, c’mon, go home before they shoot you all.

Trickle by trickle, the crowd grew. The soldiers stood a little closer together, held their guns a little higher. Kostmayer felt his own knuckles whiten on his glasses. There’s going to be a bloodbath, he thought grimly, and we’ve got no way to stop it.

The soldier on the phone gestured for the guard commander. The older man crowded into the shack and took the phone. It was a brief conversation. The commander came out and motioned to his guards to gather around him.

A young family came to the edge of the crowd, a father with a child by each hand and a mother with a babe in her arms. Go home, Kostmayer thought frantically. Take your children and go. Go now, while there’s still time.

The commander of the guard went to the Gate and opened it. On the Western side, the guards sprang to alert. The eastern commander waved to the nearest civilians. Waved them through. They hesitated, questioning. He waved again. The two stepped into West Berlin.

Kostmayer lowered his binoculars slowly. "Holy shit."

Then, from both sides of the Wall, the cheering started.

***

_This is the world we live in_   
_And these are the hands we're given_   
_Use them and let's start trying_   
_To make it a place worth living in._

 

Control’s phone rang. He scowled at it and went on talking. Walker and Simms sat on the other side of the desk, both on the edge of their seats. He’d been chewing their asses for the better part of an hour. They didn’t have much left to sit on.

The phone rang again, and Control growled audibly. He’d ordered all his calls held. Sue had gone home – he glanced at his watch; it was after six – an hour ago, and the main switchboard in the basement was supposed to be fielding calls for him. He had been very explicit about not being interrupted. He’d have to look up the shift supervisor and do a little chewing on him, too. Another ring, and viciously he snagged the phone. "Control."

"Priority one call from Berlin. Kostmayer."

Control took a slow breath. "Put him through," he said, his voice perfectly calm.

There were crackles and beeps and static. "Hey, Control?"

"Kostmayer. Short version, please, what is it?"

"They just opened the Wall."

Control took another deep breath. "The Berlin Wall?"

"Yeah. They’re just letting people walk through."

"You’re sure."

"I’m standing here watching it, Control."

"Long version, please."

"There was a press conference. They asked when the new travel laws would go into effect. Schabowski said, well, right away. They’ve just opened the gate. Look, there’s TV crews here already. Try CNN, see if they’ve got a feed."

The spymaster nodded thoughtfully. His face remained impassive, but he could feel his pulse racing. The Wall is open, the Wall is open, rolled over and over in his mind. We won the Cold War. We won the bloody Cold War …

… it’s too soon, we’re not ready for this, the plans aren’t in place, there’s going to be a bloodbath, and that right soon …

… but we won the Cold War …

"Thank you for calling, Mickey. I’ll put you back to the Ops Center. Keep us informed."

"You got it."

Control transferred the call back downstairs and hung up the phone. When he looked up, Walker and Simms were still staring at him, expecting the lecture to continue. He ignored them, stood and walked across his office. He opened the cabinet there and snapped on the television.

CNN was indeed at the Berlin Wall, and the gate was wide open.

Control stared at the screen and smiled.

"Is that …" Simms said at his shoulder, "…what’s happened?"

"We did it!" Walker crowed. "We finally beat the bastards!"

The smile left Control’s eyes, but stayed on his lips as he glanced at his subordinate. "Welcome to the brave new world, gentlemen." He turned back to the screen and watched, just watched, for a moment. People coming from the East, old people and babies and everyone in between. On the West, the streets were already full of people, hugging the newcomers, playing rock music, dancing. There were troops and police out in force, but they were calm, guns lowered.

Nodding to himself, Control turned away from the screens. "Everybody in, now," he said crisply. "Conference room, thirty minutes, no exceptions. Go."

They went. Control moved slowly to the door and closed it. He sat down behind his desk, his eyes drawn back to the TV screen, and reached for his phone. A new world, indeed. They’d seen it coming, but not this soon, not like this. A hundred new plans needed to be made, and a thousand more needed to be adjusted. But first, one moment, two phone calls.

One ring, and a calm, warm voice. "’lo?"

"I need you."

He could hear the smile in Lily’s voice. "At the office?" she teased carefully.

"At the office first, yes."

"On my way." No questions, not from her, not ever.

Five rings, and just before the machine picked up, a terse, "Robert McCall."

"Turn on your TV, old son," Control said warmly. "We’ve just won the Cold War."

***

_Hold on, you have gambled with your own life_   
_And you face the night alone_   
_While the builders of the cages_   
_They sleep with bullets, bars and stone_   
_They do not see your road to freedom_   
_That you build with flesh and bone_

 

Mickey Kostmayer took to the streets.

Part of him wanted, badly, to go into East Berlin. It amused him to think he could just walk right through the gate and walk the streets at will, after all the times he’d had to sneak in there. But he was also aware that there would still be agents on that side of the Wall. They might not be avowed enemies any more, but they weren’t allies, either, and the East Germans had plenty of reason to want him dead. He wouldn’t get the same welcome a civilian did, he was quite sure of that.

He was also aware that if Control had to retrieve him from East Berlin now, he was likely to be pissy about it.

So he stayed sensibly on the West side of the Wall, but he roamed the streets, watching everything. There was music everywhere, most of it American rock and roll. There was beer everywhere, too. Or whiskey, or vodka, even fine old wine. On every street someone offered him a drink. There was increasingly food offered, too. Mostly, though, there were people. All the people in the whole city seemed to be on the streets. The further he walked, the more foreign languages he heard. It wasn’t just the city. The whole world was coming to Berlin.

No one seemed to care that it was three in the morning.

Mickey began to see photographers, too. They reminded him of Anne Keller. Cameras always did. But after the fourth or fifth one, it occurred to him that Annie ought to be here. This was a once-in-a-lifetime event. The pictures would be once-in-a-lifetime as well. Knowing Annie, she could milk a Pulitzer Prize out of this.

He paused to get his bearings, then started back towards the safe house.

It seemed likely, actually, that she was already on her way. If that was true, he’d never find her in this crowd. But maybe he could catch her before she left, set up a rendezvous.

As he strode through Berlin, it came to him that he was, at least technically, still on assignment. If Annie came and anything went down …

"Have a beer, friend!" The tall German thrust a mug in front of Mickey’s face.

"No, thanks," Mickey said quickly. "I’ve got to go find my girlfriend."

"Your girlfriend, you say! Better make sure your wife doesn’t find out!" The German slapped him on the back, hard. "Hurry, friend, go find her!"

Kostmayer hurried on, shaking off the slap. By sunrise the whole city, East and West, would be falling-down drunk. By noon it was likely to be most of Europe.

Annie in Berlin, with him, while he was working. Annie meeting his co-workers. Meeting Ginger. He frowned. Meeting Lily, he amended. That sounded better. A party like this, there was no way Romanov would pass it up.

Unless she was at a much more private party.

He shuddered, shook his head to scatter that image. Even her ill-considered affair with Control couldn’t keep her from this party.

Annie with him in Berlin while he was working. He expected it to trigger his alarms, but it didn’t. It felt right.

She’s be eternally grateful, whatever else happened.

He hurried up a back alley, short-cutting across the business district. He was not really even sure she’d want to see him. Oh, for the pictures, sure, but him? They hadn’t parted on very good terms, last time he’d seen her.

No, he admitted, they’d parted on very bad terms.

He’d been cold and silent, and leaving, and Annie had been screaming at his back. Something on the lines of, ‘Damn you to hell, Michael Kostmayer, don’t you dare walk out on me again! And don’t you bother coming back!’ Mickey flinched, remembering it. But she didn’t mean it. She never did.

Still …

But this was different. Surely for this she’d come.

He shook his head, ducked around another large group, another proffered beer. Someone held out a three-inch high ham and cheese sandwich, on pumpernickel. After a half-step of hesitation, he took it, nodded his thanks, and went on.

He took a bite at the corner. The heavy horseradish and spicy ham bit back. It was wonderful.

The problem with him and Annie, he thought as he moved, was that they never saw each other. He was in New York a lot, but he was also on missions for weeks at a time. When he was home, half the time she was gone. Jaime Sullivan, her mentor, had done a great job promoting her work. She had art shows, book signings, lectures. She’d even been on a national talk show with her sequel to his photo book. There just wasn’t enough time when both of them were home.

Some of what she’d said in their last argument was true. He did expect her to clear her schedule to meet his, at least once in a while. And, he admitted, he changed his plans at the last minute, either to go on assignment or to help McCall with one of his people. It wasn’t really fair, and he was more than ready to admit it.

If only she didn’t scream about it.

The other problem with Annie Keller was that, like her mother, she liked to yell. The louder she got, the less Mickey listened to her. He knew it made her mad as hell when he just walked away from her rants, but he didn’t see any other way. If he yelled back, what did that get them? Two people yelling. She’d yell louder, he’d yell louder, it wouldn’t get them anywhere.

Kostmayer knew how to yell. He saved it for when he was working. He didn’t see the point, in a personal relationship.

He finished the sandwich a few blocks from the safe house, wiped his hands on his jeans. He just wished things could be more settled with him and Annie. He wished he could be sure she’d at least be coming back to him when she left. He wished …

"Excuse me, sir?" an American accent said.

Mickey snapped around. A rather small, rather old man was at his elbow, with a rather small, rather old woman beside him.

His sudden turn startled them both. "I’m sorry," the man stammered. "I didn’t mean to … do you speak any English?"

"A little," Kostmayer answered, with a heavy German accent.

"We wondered, my wife and me, if you could take our picture." The old man held out a camera, a tiny pocket 110. "Please, a picture?"

Kostmayer shrugged, took the camera, and aimed it.

"No, wait," the woman said. "Here, over here." She pushed the man to the front steps of a largish brick house, probably a bed-and-breakfast. "Here, like in the picture."

"The picture?" Mickey asked.

"Here, see?" She dug into her triple-sized purse and came out with a very old cardboard picture folder. She opened it, showed it to Mickey. In the picture, a rather small, rather young, very happy couple stood on these same steps. It was black and white, faded with age, but it was undoubtedly this couple.

"Our honeymoon," the old man said shyly. "In 1961."

"The year the Wall was built," Mickey observed.

"Yes. Yes. So you see why we had to come back here."

"He was so nervous at our wedding," the old woman said, patting her husband’s arm. "So upset, all this turmoil would ruin our wedding. I promised him that our marriage would last longer than this Wall."

Kostmayer grinned. "And you were right."

The old man nodded. "She’s always right," he said, with a conspiratorial wink. "That’s how our marriage has lasted."

Mickey took their picture, took several of them. They offered to buy him breakfast or a drink, but he declined and went on his way. When he looked back from the corner, they were necking like newlyweds.

He grinned as he trotted towards the safe house. He’d remembered, with their help, a lesson he’d learned early on with the Company, and that often applied in civilian life: Sometimes the old ways were best.

***

_If you need me, call me_   
_No matter where you are_   
_No matter how far_   
_Just call my name_   
_I'll be there in a hurry_   
_You don't have to worry_

 

Lily arrived half an hour after Control called her. Markland and Russo were in his office, and Jacob Stock as well. He barely glanced at the young woman. "Find this Scotch, and deliver it here," he said, handing her a half-size memo sheet. "Then this note to the address on the envelope. Only to his hand, understand. And then this."

She took the pile of papers from him. "On my way," she said. "When does the celebrating start?"

Control smirked. "We are celebrating."

"Oh." She caught his eye, just for an instant, with a look that said, if you think this is a celebration, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

He nodded, just once, understanding perfectly. He could not wait to get her alone.

Lily nodded back, and was gone.

"Who are you buying Scotch for?" Markland asked.

Control turned his blue eyes coolly on the man who had once voted to have him executed. Then he sat down and continued planning, as if the man did not exist.

***

_Imagine there's no countries_   
_It isn't hard to do_   
_Nothing to kill or die for_   
_And no religion too_   
_Imagine all the people_   
_Living life in peace..._

Robert McCall sat on his couch, his hands in his lap, and watched the television.

He rarely watched television at all, sports sometimes, news, but not network TV, not for hours on end as his son sometimes did. The advent of 24-hour news had encouraged him, for a time, but it quickly became as filled with tripe as anything else. But this …

He stared at the television and he could not look away.

He watched through commercials, watched through commentary that was at least half wrong, Watched talking heads babble, and watched politicians who had had no part in this triumph claim the credit. But mostly he watched the Wall. Watched the party, watched the people, the dancing, the hugging, the crying, the celebration.

He should, he thought, get something to eat. Go to the bathroom. Change his clothes. Go out and see old friends. Call someone. Move off the couch. Do something. But he could not tear his eyes away from the scene.

Finally, he gave himself permission to just sit there. This, he thought, this is what you worked your whole life for. This celebration. Sit, enjoy it. Enjoy every damn minute of it.

And so he sat back, his hands in his lap, and he watched.

***

_Well she'd like you to think she was born yesterday_   
_with her innocent looks and her little town ways_   
_when she's smilin' at me she's got angels in her eyes_

 

Hours of phone calls, hours of planning and congratulations, hours of trying to get his people to focus on the fact that there were a million new challenges at hand. Three top East German agents had shown up at the safe house in Berlin already, wanting to defect. No one was sure what to do with them. No one in Washington seemed willing to make a decision.

No one in Washington seemed especially sober, either.

Lily returned, and he sent her out again with new errands. When she returned the second time, she brought a Styrofoam container laden with eggs and sausage, and a bag of still-warm cinnamon rolls. He looked at her curiously. "Breakfast," she said, gesturing towards the window. The sun was just breaking over the horizon.

Control realized two things at once: that he’d worked all night, which was nothing new surprise, and that he was ravenous. Slower, he realized that he was finally alone with Lily, albeit in his office and with the door open. It was better than nothing. "Have you eaten?"

She nodded. "Becky fed me. You want some coffee?"

"I’m not sure I should drink coffee you bring me."

Lily dropped her chin and looked at him. "You can trust meeee, Control," she purred.

"Right."

She went out and came back with coffee, two cups, hot and black and apparently unadulterated. He was half-way through his breakfast. She sat across the desk from him, drank her own coffee and waited.

"What?" he asked.

"Next assignment?"

He considered, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "I don’t have one, at the moment. Take a break, but stay close."

"All right."

She sat still for another moment. Control looked up at her, and the look in her eyes – unguarded, unabashed – was enough to make his breath catch. He wanted, suddenly, desperately, to kiss her. He wanted to be truly alone with her, he wanted to celebrate this victory with her, he wanted to make love to her savagely and then slowly. Normal men with normal jobs got to go home to their lovers at the end of the day.

He was not a normal man with a normal job, and she knew it as well as he did. The look in her eyes was not reproach. It was patient anticipation. She would wait, for as long as it took him to get away.

She was his Lily, his salvation, and she would wait. Control had never hated his job more than he did at that moment, on the morning when he could claim the biggest victory of his career.

***


	2. Chapter 2

_As soon as the shareef was chauffeured outta there_   
_The jet pilots tuned to the cockpit radio blare_   
_As soon as the shareef was outta their hair_   
_The jet pilots wailed …_

An hour or more later, Control heard voices in his outer office. One, he was immediately certain, was Lily’s. The others were male, three or four of them, and they were half-arguing, urgent and hushed.

Curious, he up and moved silently to his door.

An unlikely quintet was busily negotiating there: With Lily were Stock, Sterno, Jimmy and Teddy Roelen, who took up about half of the available space. The gist of the conversation seemed to be, ‘I’m not asking him, you ask him.’ Control folded his arms over his chest and leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. "Ask me what?" he inquired quietly.

Startled, the agents fell silent. Then as one they turned to look at Stock. "We, uh, we want to have a party."

Control shrugged a quarter of an inch. "So have a party."

"A … uh, a Company party. You know, for everybody. Field ops and office staff and everybody."

He raised one eyebrow. "Why not just have a photo shoot in front of the Soviet embassy?"

"I had nothing to do with this," Jimmy stated. "I said it wasn’t a good idea."

"We’ll take care of security," Stock answered quickly. "Somewhere out-of-the-way, concealed. That won’t be an issue."

"All right. And?"

"And?"

"And why are you asking me?" Control pursued.

"We want to expense it," Lily answered brightly.

"I see." Control nodded, unimpressed. "You want the Company to pay for it."

"It’s a Company party," Roelen provided.

"Yeah," Sterno added. "It’s not like we’d socialize with these people under normal circumstances."

Stock glared at him. "You have to admit, Control, something like this doesn’t happen every day. We deserve a little celebration. Nothing fancy, just, uh …"

"An open bar," Lily said.

"And lots of food," Sterno chimed in.

"And music," Roelen added. "Maybe a DJ, or a band?"

"And all of this should come out of my operating budget?"

Jimmy cleared his throat. "Well, none of us have an operating budget."

Control considered each of them in turn. Only Lily seemed unconcerned about his reply. "Loud music, excessive drinking, bad take-out food, all out of my wallet."

The assembled agents considered, and then nodded. "Yeah, pretty much," Lily confirmed.

"And you’re the planning committee, I suppose."

"No," Jimmy protested, "we just came up with the idea …"

"You’re the planning committee," Control repeated firmly. "Conditions as follows: No KGB photo ops. Nobody drives drunk. And I don’t have to make any speeches."

The members of the newly-formed committee exchanged glances. "Deal," Stock agreed.

Control nodded. "When is this debacle taking place?"

Another round of looks. "We’ll let you know," Roelen promised.

"And where, is the bigger question," Stock said.

"I might know a place," Lily answered. "Let me make some calls."

"I’ll be in charge of food," Sterno volunteered. "I know a couple great places."

"Good," Stock said. "Then we’re going to need music … I don’t know about live music on short notice. What if we got tapes or something?"

"People," Control said quietly, "plan somewhere else."

None of them ever heard him. He went back into his office and shut the door.

***

_She’s totally committed_   
_To major independence_   
_But she’s a lady through and through_   
_She gives them quite a battle_   
_All that they can handle_

 

"Annie?"

She juggled the phone, finally managed to set down the bag of groceries. "Mickey? Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I’m fine. I’m in Berlin. You should come."

Anne Keller sighed. "I’ve tried, believe me. Every contact I could think of. There’s no way to get there for the next three days."

There was a discernable pause. "Do you want to come?"

"Of course I want to. The pictures would be incredible." She shook her head impatiently. If she worked for a news service, or a network, she might have had a chance. As an independent, it wasn’t happening.

"Get your stuff together," Mickey said. "I’ll find a way to get you here."

Anne paused. "Are you allowed to do that?"

"Don’t worry about it," he said, conveniently ignoring the question. "Just pack. And bring all the film you can carry, it’s going to be hard to get here."

She grinned. "Really?"

"Really."

"I don’t want to get you in any trouble …"

"Annie. Just pack. Gotta run."

The phone went dead. Bewildered, Anne put the phone down and stared at it. They hadn’t spoken for three weeks – he never called when he was working, and the last time he’d been there they’d had a fight – no, she’d had a fight, he’d ignored it and gone home, as usual – and then this, out of the blue.

She was absolutely certain whatever he had in mind wasn’t legal, or at least not completely legal.

But she was going to Berlin, and she was going to get the pictures of a lifetime.

She swiftly put away the groceries, then went to pack every camera she owned.

***

_Step by step, heart to heart, left right left,_   
_We all fall down like toy soldiers._   
_It wasn't my intention to mislead you,_   
_It never should have been this way. What can I say?_

 

A quiet, firm knock at his door finally prompted Robert McCall to move. He knew that knock. As he stood up, stiffly, he ran a rueful hand over his chin. It was rough with stubble. His teeth felt slimy, and his breath smelled bad even to him. His clothes did not smell particularly fresh, either. But it did not matter. She had seen him in his morning splendor before. She would not care.

He opened the door. "Good morning, Mira."

"Good Lord, have you been up all night?"

Robert nodded, gesturing towards the television. "I couldn't turn it off."

Mira smiled knowingly, took his hand and led him back to the couch. "I thought as much." She watched the flickering images. "It really is wonderful, isn't it? You must be so proud of yourself."

"Proud?" Robert wondered aloud. "I don't know that I have anything particularly to be proud of."

"You helped this happen."

He shook his head. "In some small way, perhaps."

"You're being too modest. It doesn't become you."

Robert sighed. This woman knew him too well, read him too well. "What I did, in the course of my career … may have helped this along. Perhaps. But there are so many other forces at work here. Economics, for one. The Soviet Union simply couldn't sustain its control, once it was overextended in Afghanistan …" He paused. There was no point in going into all of that, though Mira, of all people, would have followed the logic and history easily. "It is a great day for them," he agreed. "For all of us."

Mira studied him. "But?"

McCall shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck. "But there are many unresolved conflicts in the area, and I'm afraid many of them will emerge now that the Soviet control is breaking up."

"Are you saying we were better off with the Communists?"

"No, no. Of course not." He paused to consider. Perhaps that was true, but he could not admit that aloud, not ever. "I think it may be a professional hazard, Mira. For every positive event, I see a thousand possible negative results. It's nothing. I'm accustomed to seeing shadows where there are none."

Her eyes never left his face. "My specialty is Early American history, Robert, but I do know a thing or two about Central Europe. There are shadows there, and they are dark and deep."

"But they are not my problem any more," McCall answered firmly.

Mira allowed this dismissal of the topic, though she was clearly skeptical. She nodded towards the TV. "Are you going?"

"To Berlin? I think not. Large drunken crowds are really not my favorite venue." He considered. "Perhaps in a month or so, when things have quieted down. I think I would like to watch them tear down that Wall with my own eyes."

"You should go," Mira encouraged. "You deserve it."

"Will you come with me?" Robert asked impulsively.

"I … what?"

He grinned. The question had startled him as much as her. Their relationship had been wonderfully companionable, but thus far it had also been consciously casual. Traveling overseas together would change that. Take it to the next level, as it were. He had given this next step no consideration at all, but as soon as he'd spoken, he was sure of his decision. "Come to Berlin with me," he asked again.

Mira paused for a good thirty seconds. One of the things Robert was coming to like best about her was that she simply stopped to think about things, without apology, without pretense. She would even tell him, on occasion, 'Be quiet, I'm thinking.' He liked her forthrightness.

Thirty seconds, however, was plenty of time for him to wonder if he'd just irretrievably botched this new relationship.

Then Mira nodded. "All right. It sounds fascinating."

"Good," Robert declared, hoping he didn't sound too relieved. "We'll compare calendars over breakfast, shall we?"

"It's nearly lunch time, Robert."

"Is it?" He touched his chin again. "Well, that would explain why I'm so hungry, wouldn't it?" He stood up. "Give me fifteen minutes to clean up, will you? And then we'll go find something to eat. If you don't have plans."

Mira looked up at him, bemused. "My plan, Robert, is to spend the afternoon with you, unless you have other plans."

McCall grinned. He bent to kiss her, lightly, mindful of his breath. "That sounds like a most excellent plan indeed."

***

_When you were young and your heart was an open book_   
_You used to say live and let live_   
_(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did)_   
_But if this ever-changing world in which we live in_   
_Makes you give in and cry_   
_Say live and let die_

 

The top of the sign in the elevator was hand-written in bold red marker. It read: ‘What’s James Bond Got That We Don’t?’ Below, in smaller blue letters, it continued: ‘We know, we know – an endless expense account, hot and cold running women, and those wonderful toys – but besides that? A GREAT SOUNDTRACK! You want music at your party? Tell us what you want.’

There followed a half-sheet of blank lines.

Control rolled his eyes. The signs were everywhere, and filling up fast with musical suggestions.

This one, he noted with dour amusement, had been embellished with an asterisk, and a note which read, ‘Don’t forget, he also has a license to kill.’ There followed a reply: ‘Yeah, because in Britain you need a license for EVERY DAMN THING.’ Control didn’t know where the original note had come from, but the smart-ass answer was undoubtedly Lily’s.

In an undistracted corner of his mind, he began to have grave apprehensions about this party.

There seemed to be no backing out of it.

He punched the ‘stop’ button on the elevator, and added his own suggestions to the list, carefully disguising his distinctive handwriting. It was just better, he reasoned, if his agents had no real idea how much modern music he’d been exposed to of late.

Satisfied, he put his pen away and let the elevator resume.

***

_Five hundred little women_   
_Are calling at their hero's door_   
_Yes, their hero is working overtime_   
_He's squirming on an empty floor_   
_And the heads they are a rolling_   
_Cause the conqueror is on his way_

 

Hours more of dispatching agents, seeing to new communications lines, provisioning. The morning slipped by, devoured by details, interrupted by telephone calls, visitors, back-slapping, hand shaking. With meticulous planning, Control sent his lover on one more errand and then told her to go home. She did not argue. At lunch time, Control narrowly managed to escape.

He was reasonably certain that today, of all days, no one would be tailing him, but he took a circuitous route to her apartment anyhow. He was positively fevered with desire for her. But even now – especially now – he was careful.

She met him at the back door of the apartment, drew him in and locked the door. "I was hoping you’d get away."

Control drew her tight in his arms and kissed her fiercely.

"Are you hungry?" she asked when he finally lifted his mouth from hers.

"No."

"I got a really good steak, and Scotch … I could make a salad, if you want, it’s heavy, for lunch, but I didn’t know quite what the proper celebratory meal was …"

"No," he said again, quietly. He lowered his arms to her waist. Then he bent, moved forward, and stood up with the woman thrown over his shoulder.

Lily squealed, not in protest.

"No steak," Control announced, marching toward the bedroom. "Not now." He stopped at the side of the bed and half-dropped her onto it. He considered her for a moment, laying there, gazing up at him with her come-and-get-me grin. Then he went to the foot of the bed and turned on the small television.

He shut the blinds, and by the flickering bluish images of unfolding freedom, he both received and gave a proper hero’s reward.

***

_Nuclear Arms in the Middle East_   
_Israel's attacking the Iraqis_   
_The Syrians are mad at the Lebanese_   
_And Baghdad does whatever she please_   
_Looks like another threat to world peace for the Envoy_

 

Lily Romanov rolled over slowly and gazed impassively at the telephone ringing beside her bed. It had been ringing at precise twenty-minute intervals for two hours. She had been too involved in other things to answer before, and the caller had not spoken to her answering machine.

She stretched indolently, enjoying the feel of the heavy cotton sheets against her naked flesh. The phone continued to ring, and she continued to ignore it. There was something deliciously indulgent, she mused, about spending your lunch hour in bed with your forbidden lover. Something even better about seeing your lover off to work and then falling back into bed.

The phone persisted.

If it was him, he wanted her to work. If it wasn’t, it was nobody she wanted to talk to.

Unless it was someone calling to tell her he was dead in the street somewhere …

With sudden frantic haste, she snatched up the phone. "What?"

"About time. Did I wake you?" a man’s voice purred. The connection was fuzzy, implying distance.

Lily sagged back against the pillows. "You did, actually."

"So you’re in bed?"

"Yes."

"Are you naked?"

She giggled. "Yes. What are you wearing?" she leered.

He hesitated. "Uh … well, leather."

"Everywhere?"

"No, just a jacket."

"And nothing else?"

Kostmayer laughed. "Okay, you win."

"Whatcha’ need, sweetie?"

"Big favor."

"You got it."

"Big favor," Mickey repeated.

Lily sat up in bed, arranged the covers over her lap. "I got it. Talk to me. Where are you?"

"Berlin."

"Ah. Good party?" She glanced toward the TV at the end of the bed, where the coverage continued.

"You would not believe how good this party is. You should come."

"It’s tempting."

"I want to get married."

Romanov hesitated. "That’s sweet, Mickey, but you know I’m seeing somebody else, right?"

"Not to you, smart ass. I want to ask Annie to marry me. Here, at the Wall."

"Is Annie in Berlin?"

"No. She’s in New York. Which is why I’m calling you. I need you to come to Berlin, and bring Annie, and my mother’s ring."

"I suppose you want it all today."

"Yep."

"Where’s the ring?"

"My brother has it."

"Your brother the priest?"

"Only brother I got. I’ll call and tell him you’re coming for it. St. Christina’s."

"You really expect me to set foot in a church for you?"

Kostmayer laughed. "You can do this, Lily. I have faith in you."

"Yeah. Anything else you want?" she asked dryly.

"That’ll do it. I’ll meet you at the safe house."

"You’re assuming I can talk Control into this."

There was a discreet pause. "I’m sure you can persuade him."

"You’re asking an awful lot here, Kostmayer."

"Yeah, like it would be such a hardship," he smirked.

"Well, one can hope. All right. Call your brother. We’ll be there, some time."

"Thanks, Lil. I already called Annie, she’ll be ready when you get there. And, hey, Lily? Don’t tell her why she’s coming."

"Duh. Go party. I’ll find you."

"Thanks, babe."

"No thing."

Lily put down the phone and considered for a moment. Control first. On the phone or in person? Mickey was right; he wouldn’t put up much resistance either way. Half the office has already left for Berlin. It was the party of all time, and also, from an intelligence standpoint, the opportunity of the century. Commercial flights would be booked solid, but she could work around that. Anne Keller was the sticking point. How was she going to justify dragging a civilian with her on this little junket?

She climbed out of bed and stretched again. Shower first, she decided. She always plotted better when she was awake.

***


	3. Chapter 3

_She's a natural law, and she leaves me in awe_   
_She deserves the applause, I surrender because_   
_She used to look good to me, but now I find her_   
_Simply irresistible_

 

Control got back to his office mid-afternoon, after a relatively bloodless and champagne-soaked meeting. Romanov waited at the elevator for him, fell into step beside him as he walked towards his office. He greeted her with a nod, an eyebrow raised in question. "What?" he asked.

"Can I go to Berlin?"

"Why?"

"Party."

"That’ll look good on my staffing report."

"I want to get some really good pictures for the museum at Langley."

Control shook his head. "Well, that’s better than half the excuses I’ve heard so far. Ask Simms, he’s your department head."

"Can’t. He’s already gone."

"To Berlin."

"Yep. Forty-eight hours. I promise."

He glanced at her. Forty-eight hours sounded like an eternity. But she so rarely asked for anything, job-related or otherwise. In this case, when everybody in the office was angling to go to Berlin, it wasn’t even out of the ordinary. He might have sent her even if he hadn't been sleeping with her.

There was a deeper reason, as well. He'd been there when they built the Berlin Wall. He'd helped the last few people escape before the route was closed, watched helplessly while others were trapped, and while some died. He could not be there now, when the Wall opened; it was much too risky for his exalted rank. But Lily could be there. She was an extension of him, the other half of his heart. It was fitting. It was right.

Besides, he mused ruefully, he could use the rest. He might not survive another lunch hour with her.

She saw the agreement in his eyes, and mischief danced in hers. "Besides, I’ve been very good lately."

"Or very bad," he answered quietly, "depending on your view."

Lily grinned. "Or very good at being very bad."

"Go," Control ordered, before the conversation could get completely out of hand.

***

_He sang as if he knew me_   
_In all my dark despair_   
_And then he looked right through me_   
_As if I wasn't there_

 

Father Nick made his way quietly across the sanctuary to the young woman. She was standing at the back of the church, staring intently at the statue, an especially graphic life-size Crucifixion. As he drew closer, Nick hesitated. Though her back was to him, her posture was one of contemplation, if not actual prayer, and he was reluctant to disturb her. Also, she didn’t seem to have noticed his approach. He knew from experience with his brother that it was unwise to sneak up on these people.

He stopped ten feet away from her and called, quietly, "Miss Romanov?"

The woman turned and smiled warmly. "Lily," she corrected, holding an elegant hand out to him.

Nick moved closer and shook her hand. He understood now what Mickey had said on the phone: You don’t need a description; you’ll know her when you see her. Nick had long since foresworn the company of women, and yet this one, with a smile, a word, and a touch of her hand, had rendered him ever so slightly breathless. He did not want to let that hand go. "I’m sorry to keep you waiting."

She waved it off, gently disengaging her hand in the process. "No worries." She looked back to the statue. "This must scare the hell out of little kids."

"Well," Nick answered dryly, "that’s kind of the point."

Lily glanced over at him, twinkling. "I suppose so. You have something for me?"

The priest shook his head. "I’m sorry, I got caught up in this meeting and I haven’t been over to the rectory yet. Two minutes, I promise, I’ll be right back."

"No hurry," she assured him.

He hurried anyhow. He retrieved the little box from his living quarters, and then hurried back. The woman was where he’d left her. She was sitting down in the last pew, still staring at the statue. Nick studied her as he approached again. He was very aware of people’s sensitivities about religious matters – a professional hazard, that awareness – and he’d found people in his brother's line of work especially resistant to any form of proselytizing. But when a person was obviously seeking, questioning, when there seemed to be a willingness, he felt obliged to tender an invitation.

He sat down sideways in the pew in front of her, draped one arm over the back and handed her the box. "Tell him I said it’s about time," he said quietly.

Lily nodded, pocketed the parcel. "I’ll tell him."

"What is it about the statue?" Nick asked. He looked over at it. Nails, thorns, blood, agony. Why this one, for her?

She glanced at the statue, then back at him. "Don’t you ever …" she began, and then stopped short. "Never mind."

"Most of my job description," Nick prompted, "is about answering questions. Go ahead."

She shook her head. "I love your brother like he was my own. I’m not about to start a firefight with you."

"Knowing Mickey like you do," Nick answered, "do you really think you’re going to say anything he hasn’t already said?"

Lily considered this for a long moment. Then she turned back to the statue. "Don’t you think there’s something fundamentally wrong with a religion whose most powerful symbol is torture?"

"Yes."

She turned back toward him, surprised. "Yes?"

"Yes. In my opinion, yes, there’s something fundamentally wrong with that. Organized religions in general, and the Catholic Church in particular, have always put way too much emphasis on the suffering and not nearly enough on the grace."

The woman continued to study his face. Nick stood up. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

Lily stood and followed him toward the front altar. "The last time a priest said that to me …" she began lightly, and stopped.

"Go on," Nick encouraged. "Confession is good for the soul."

"This particular confession wouldn’t do your soul one bit of good," she assured him.

Father Nick considered this as he walked up the side aisle. Her tone was light, playful – but sometimes that was a cover for things too painful to say outright. "Was it abusive?" he asked carefully.

She did laugh then, quietly. "No," she promised sincerely, "I was very gentle with him."

"Oh." Nick hoped he wasn’t blushing. He stopped at the corner of the front pew. "That statue," he said, gesturing to the one in the back, "used to be here." He turned his gesture to the statue suspended over the front altar, a beautiful Christ in flowing robes, uninjured and whole, his arms open in welcome. "I had it moved. Because this is the Christ I want my people coming to, the God of love and redemption and grace, not the God of suffering and torture."

The woman studied the new statue thoughtfully for a long moment.

"It’s easier to fill the pews with threats and pain," Nick continued quietly, "but I don’t personally believe that that’s what God had in mind."

"But that one," Lily finally said, nodding toward the back, "is easier to understand. Everybody has their own torture. Everybody can connect. This one," she nodded to the front, "this one’s harder, in a way." She shook her head. "Not everybody knows grace."

"You do," Nick guessed. She looked at him, surprised, but didn’t deny it. "You’ve known some tremendous grace in your life, recently. It’s what’s allowed you to be open to these questions now."

An uneasy smile danced over her face. Nick could tell that she wasn’t used to being read this well, and also that his guess had been dead on. "But the grace I found …" She stopped again.

"Wasn’t from God?" Nick asked gently. "Are you sure?"

She considered him, now. The priest proceeded carefully. "The grace that men show each other, that is also a gift from God."

Her eyes shifted, just her eyes. Something about them made the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end. "But the evil is a result of man’s free will?"

Nick sighed. "Yes."

"So God wants the credit for man’s grace, but won’t take responsibility for man’s evil?"

"Lily," he answered, very gently, "He did take responsibility." He touched her shoulder lightly, turned her back toward the crucified Christ.

After a very long moment, she sighed, and her eyes turned human again. "Oh."

He leaned closer. "Every morning at six-thirty, Saturday evenings at seven, Sunday mornings at eight and eleven. Visitors are always welcome."

Lily glanced over at him, her eyebrows coming up in an uncanny imitation of Mickey’s look, the one that said, ‘yeah, right, like that’s gonna happen.’ Nick shrugged. "I had your foot in the door, I had to take the shot."

She smiled, uncertainly. "Thanks, Nick. I gotta go."

"Give Mickey my love."

"I will." She turned and walked out, unhurried, thoughtful.

Nick watched her go, then turned back to the altar, opened his hands in a supplicating shrug to the Christ. "I tried. Your turn. Oh, and about my brother? The usual, okay?"

***

_When will I see you again?_   
_When will our hearts beat together?_   
_Are we in love or just friends?_   
_Is this my beginning or is this the end?_

 

Anne Keller paced her apartment impatiently. The floor plan was huge and open; it had been a warehouse once. She had lots of room to pace.

Her small suitcase and her huge camera bag stood beside the door, packed and closed up tight. She had thirty-seven rolls of film, of all speeds. She’d drafted two of the neighbor boys to buy every roll in a ten-block radius. She’d been afraid to leave the apartment, afraid whoever Mickey was contacting would try to reach her while she was gone. But that had been three hours ago, and still nothing. She’d watched TV until she couldn’t stand it any more. It would take half a day to get there; the party would be over by then …

No, it wouldn’t, and she knew it. It was just so damn hard to be patient. So many pictures were getting away while she waited here.

Plus, she would get to see Mickey again.

Anne paused, smiled to herself, and went on. His invitation was completely unexpected. He was working. He never let her within a mile of anyone he worked with, never said more than a clue about where he was going or what he was doing, and now he’d invited her to join him in Berlin, while he was on an … operation? Was that even the right word? Take your girlfriend to work day. He’d broken all the rules he’d set up for himself, just to let her get these pictures.

She loved the man. Oh, but she loved the man.

Even if he was so damn difficult sometimes.

Batteries, she should throw in some batteries for the cameras. She went and rummaged in the dark room drawer. She found six, and also an ancient roll of film. Well, why not?

As she was stuffing them in her overstuffed bag, there was a very quiet knock on the door.

Anne jumped, then laughed at herself. She had been expecting someone, hadn’t she? Well, she’d rather been expecting a phone call, some directions, but whatever. She snapped the lock off and opened the door.

"Hi," the woman said cheerfully. "I’m Lily. Mickey’s fine."

"Gurk," Anne managed to reply. It was all that would come out.

She’d known when she heard the knock that it would be one of Mickey’s colleagues – or maybe a cab driver, or a delivery man – in any case, she’d been expecting a man. Not a woman, and not this woman – this was Lily? Lily that Mickey said was ‘pretty’? Lily that Mickey hung out with, confided in, roamed the world with? This was Lily Romanov?

Her emotions split sharply, between raging jealousy and an intense longing to photograph this woman, in all kinds of light, color, b & w, filters, outdoors, maybe nude, that face, oh, God, that face … this woman was Mickey's courier pal?

"Are you okay?" the woman asked quietly.

Anne was suddenly aware that she didn’t know what the chaos in her mind was doing to her face. "I, uh, hi, come in, I’m Anne, I, uh, I was expecting … like, a messenger or something."

"Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you."

The woman came in, and Anne shut the door behind her. Belatedly, she considered the second half of her greeting. "Mickey’s fine?" she asked curiously.

"He surely is," Lily confirmed. "Especially his ass."

Anne laughed. "Yeah." The she sobered. It hadn’t occurred to her, until that moment, that some day one of these people would appear at her door to tell her Mickey was dead. No, that wasn’t quite true – she’d just always assumed that it would be Robert McCall. Probably it would be, but possibly, too, it would be this woman. "Thank you," she managed to say. "I just talked to him, so I didn’t think … but it must be … I mean, people’s relatives must hate to see you coming."

Lily considered her for a moment. "I hadn’t actually thought about it that way, but I suppose you’re right."

"I’m … uh, oh, crap. I’m not usually this much of an airhead. I just … I wasn’t expecting you, I wasn’t … can we just start over from the top?"

"Okay," Lily agreed. She stuck her hand out. "Hi, I’m Lily Romanov."

Gratefully, Anne shook. "Hi, I’m Anne Keller. Thank you for coming. I hear you have a way to get me to Germany."

"Well, yes, but. There are a few conditions."

Anne regarded her with reserve. "Like what?"

"One, we’re taking a military flight. It will be loud, uncomfortable, and cold. And you will be hit on by soldiers."

"You can get me on a military flight? Is that legal?"

"No."

"Oh." Anne added, "You’re coming, too?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Next."

"All of the pictures you take in Berlin will be reviewed, and any we – the Company – find unsuitable for publication will be confiscated."

Keller frowned. "That’s like censorship."

"It’s not like censorship," Lily answered, "it is censorship. But since you’ve got no other way to get there, you’re in no position to argue about it."

"I’m up against the wall, is what you’re telling me."

"You got it. But very mild, I promise. All we’re looking to do is keep someone like me off the front page of Pravda. Keep my associates out of print. No Company faces, the pictures are yours."

Anne considered for a long moment. She didn’t like it, but she could see the sense in it. And, as Lily had so bluntly pointed out, she didn’t have a lot of choice. "Agreed."

"Three, we get copies of all the pictures you take, and can use and display as many as we want at the Company museum and in recruitment literature and all the jazz."

"You don’t want much, do you?"

"My ass is hanging out on this. I’ve got to cover it with something."

Against her will, Anne had to grin. She could see why Mickey liked this woman so much – aside from the obvious. "Can I shoot you some time?"

"I kind of hope it won’t come to that."

"No, no," Keller laughed. "I mean will you sit for me, can I take your picture? A lot of pictures. You have a great face."

"You wouldn’t be able to publish them."

"I don’t care."

Lily considered. "We can talk about it. You ready?"

"I guess. Let me grab my jacket."

"If you’ve got a parka," Lily advised, "bring it."

"That cold?"

"Unless you’re willing to huddled with soldiers for warmth."

"I’ll get my parka."

***

_Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew_   
_When I bit off more than I could chew._   
_But through it all, when there was doubt,_   
_I ate it up and spit it out._

 

Another knock on his door.

McCall sat up, stiff, reaching to rub the left side of his neck. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, his head on the arm. How long ago had that been? A thousand years or so, according to the pain in his neck. He clambered up and shuffled to the door, peered through the peep hole, then opened it. Becky Baker, his son’s live-in girlfriend, had a grocery bag.

She kissed him on the cheek and went to the kitchen. "I didn’t know if you’d been out for food," she said, stocking his refrigerator from the bag. Single-serving containers. It didn’t matter to Robert what was in them; they would all be delicious.

"I went to lunch, actually. But that was rather a long time ago. I have become a hopeless couch potato."

Becky shrugged. "It’s hard not to watch it. It’s so … I don’t know. It’s going to be one of those days, forever. ‘Where were you when you heard?’ Isn’t it?"

"I suppose it is."

"You’re going to the party, right?"

"The … party?" Robert asked cautiously.

"The Company party. Lily’s organizing it. Or helping, anyhow." Becky looked at him curiously, then turned and gestured to his telephone. The answering machine light said it had six messages. "Sunday night. You should go."

McCall nodded. "I’ll think about it. But I’ve been out of the game for some years now. This party is for the young people."

"This party," Becky answered, with uncharacteristic firmness, "is for all of you. You’ve earned it, and you should go."

Robert eyed her with approval. When he’d met her, years before, she had been a shy, stammering, badly frightened young woman. She was still shy, sometimes, but not with him. She knew exactly where she stood with him. "As you wish," he promised.

"Good." She kissed his cheek again. "I gotta run."

He walked her to the door. "How do you know about this party, anyhow? They didn’t rope you into catering it, did they?"

Becky shook her head. "No. But Lily’s got Scott making tapes."

"Tapes?"

"Music. She's making a song list, and he’s putting them on reel-to-reel for her."

"Ah."

"Eat something," Becky prompted as she left.

McCall locked the door behind her. He reached for the message machine, then stopped. Whatever was on it, it would wait until he’d eaten something.

Though he had to admit, he was curious about this party.

***

_So baby, here's your ticket, with your suitcase in your hand._   
_Here's a little money, do it just the way we planned._   
_You be cool for twenty hours_   
_And I'll pay you twenty grand._   
_I'm sorry it went down like this, someone had to lose,_   
_It's the nature of the business,_   
_It's the smuggler's blues._

 

Anne Keller’s nose itched.

She half-woke and moved to scratch it. She couldn’t lift her arm. Grumbling, more awake, she tried the other arm. It wouldn’t move either.

In an adrenalin surge, she was wide awake. It was loud, she was too hot, her parka smelled musty, and she was completely immobile, her hands folded across her chest and strapped down.

Where the hell am I? she wondered frantically, thrashing.

"Help you, ma’am?" a kindly man’s voice said. A face appeared over her, a crew-cut black man of middle years. In uniform.

Anne took a deep breath, remembering finally where she was. "Yes, please," she said sheepishly.

The soldier – no, airman – no, corpsman – made no move to help her. Instead, he simply prompted, "Remember your hands are right by the releases."

She remembered. She turned her hands awkwardly and was able to release the belts that held her in the bunk. She sat up, barely avoiding the bunk above her.

"Don’t forget your feet," the corpsman continued.

Anne nodded. She had indeed been about to try to stand up without releasing the restraint across her shins. "Thanks."

"We’ve all done it, ma’am. Hitting the deck is no fun at all." He watched while she released her legs and swung her feet over the side of the bunk. "Head’s back that way," he finished, gesturing toward the back of the plane. Then he moved off toward the front.

"Thank you," Anne called after him, loud enough to be heard over the engine noise.

She sat still for a moment, swaying lightly with the plane’s motion, getting her bearings. C-140, medical transport plane, dead-heading back to Germany. Only four seats, for the four corpsmen traveling with the plane. Fifty or so bunks, three-high on the bulkheads. Stack the wounded like cordwood to fly them home. No one traveled until they were stable enough for it. Emergency medical aid up in the front, but they didn’t like to have to use it, no, ma’am. Strap in for take-off, the corpsman had said, stay put until we reach altitude, then you can stroll around. But the engine noise and vibration had conked her out for – she glanced at her watch – five hours.

Well, it wasn’t like there was much else to do, anyhow. She couldn’t even take pictures of the airplane. They'd been rather firm on that point.

She wondered how Lily had managed to get them on the flight. From what she’d seen, it had involved a lot more chatting with mid-level officers and handing out doughnuts than any official paperwork. ‘Your name is Nancy Campbell,’ Lily had told her, and she’d given Anne the papers to prove it. ‘If anyone asks any questions, cop an attitude and send them to me.’

Two things Anne Keller was sure of: This wasn’t legal, and Lily Romanov did it all the time.

No wonder Mickey liked her so well.

Anne frowned, bit her thumb, and then shook it off. They were friends, Mickey and Lily, nothing more. Why else would the woman go to all this trouble, take all these chances for her? What, they were going to fly her all the way to Berlin so Mickey could dump her? Sorry, babe, it’s over, but as a consolation prize you get great pictures of the Wall?

They were friends. Nothing more.

She looked around. Where was Lily, anyhow? When Anne was being strapped in, the spy was in the bunk across from her, fitting her own straps. Now there was no sign of her. Carefully, Anne slid to her feet, holding the upper bunk for balance. She looked up and down the aisle. The four corpsmen were playing cards at a make-shift table. No Romanov.

Anne made her way unsteadily to back to the head. It was roughly the size of a phone booth, and smelled peculiar. A hand-printed warning, written directly on the wall, helpfully advised against flushing while seated ‘unless you want your ass in the crack until we land’. Lovely, Anne thought, wrestling with her parka that seemed to take up the whole room. Just lovely.

When she emerged, Lily was coming off the flight deck, wearing a blue flight jacket and carrying a thermos. She flopped onto Anne’s empty bunk, gestured for the woman to join her. "Coffee?" she offered, pouring the lid half-full.

Anne considered. It would mean using the head again later; at least she’d know to take the parka off next time. Her hands were cold. The coffee smelled great. "Sure." She took a drink, handed the cup back, and was unsurprised when the other woman drank from it as well. "Nice jacket."

Lily grinned. "Yeah, it’s the captain’s. I’ll probably have to give it back later."

"How in the world did you do this?" Anne gestured at the plane.

"Medical transports are always way more comfortable than standard troop planes. Better for sleeping, anyhow."

"That’s not what I meant."

"I know." Lily handed the coffee back. "I can’t tell you." She considered a moment. "There are two kinds of people in the world. The ones who make the rules, and the ones who do the work." She plucked at her flight jacket. "If you can get to the ones who do the work, and convince them that the ones who make the rules won’t find out about it, you can get a hell of a lot done pretty easily."

Anne grinned. "Sounds like something Mickey would say."

"Yeah. Because I taught him that."

Anne could almost hear the two of them debating who taught who what. "Did you ever sleep with him?" she blurted, before she could bite it back.

Romanov wasn’t offended; she didn’t even seem surprised. "Who, Mickey?"

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …"

"… sure, lots of times."

"Oh." Anne took a big swig of coffee. She hadn’t meant to ask, and now she was sorry she had. She wanted to be angry, but she was so startled she couldn’t even think if she had any ground for it. "Oh," she said again.

"Sorry, did you mean to ask if I ever had sex with him?"

"What?"

"Sex?"

"Yes."

"No."

Anne blinked. "No?"

"No. Slept with him, yes. Sex with him, no."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Not even once?"

Lily laughed. "That would be covered by ‘never’, I think. No, never, not even once."

"Why not?"

The spy – Anne wondered if she should even think of her that way – took her coffee back. "You sound disappointed."

"No," Anne protested. "I’m just surprised."

"Because a man and a woman can’t have a relationship that doesn’t involve sex?"

"No, but … but look at you. You’re gorgeous, and you get to share his whole life …"

"No," Lily corrected gently, "just the ugly parts of it."

"But …" Anne made herself take a deep breath. "I’m sorry, I’m being an idiot. I didn’t even mean to ask in the first place, it’s none of my business."

"I think it’d be your business if the answer had been yes," Lily answered. "It’s not an unreasonable question." She considered. "If you’re going to be on the fringes of the community …" she raised one eyebrow, checking that Anne knew what community she was referring to, " … you’re going to hear rumors about us. Me and Mickey. We haven’t directly encouraged them, but we haven’t done anything to discourage them, either. People wondering about us serves a purpose. So it’s better if you know this now."

Anne stared at her. What purpose, she wanted to ask, but she knew she wouldn’t get an answer to that one. There was so much that went on in Mickey’s life that she didn’t know about, so many secrets that this woman got to share with him and Anne didn’t. Yet what had Lily said? ‘Just the ugly parts.’ That was probably true, too.

"You have brothers, right?" Lily asked.

"Many."

"When you were little, did you ever tongue-kiss one of them, just to find out what it was like?"

Anne flushed, but she also nodded. "Yeah," she admitted.

"I kissed Mickey once," Lily announced. "It was just like that."

"Like kissing your brother?"

"Yep. And that’s as far as it ever went."

Anne nodded. "Thank you for telling me that."

The other woman nodded, half-refilled the coffee mug. "Now Nick, on the other hand, I don’t have all this history with, he’s got possibilities."

"Nick the priest?"

"Yeah." Lily’s mischievous smile made it clear that she was just joking – mostly. "Well, you know what Protestant girls call priests, don’t you?"

"I’m afraid to ask."

"Fair game."

Anne laughed. "I’m going to hell just for talking to you, aren’t I?"

"Oh, yeah," Lily agreed. "But look at the bright side."

"I know, I know. All my friends will be there."

***


	4. Chapter 4

_But who are the ones that we call our friends--_   
_These governments killing their own?_   
_Or the people who finally can't take any more_   
_And they pick up a gun or a brick or a stone_   
_There are lives in the balance_   
_There are people under fire_   
_There are children at the cannons_   
_And there is blood on the wire_

 

The print-out was literally hot off the press when it was delivered to Control. The ink on the "Eyes Only" stamp was still damp.

He read the teletype anxiously. They had only recently managed to tap the telephones in the DDR leadership offices in Germany. This call, he had been told, had come directly from the Kremlin. It had come, in fact, from Gorbachev himself.

The Soviet leadership could still screw this deal. Control was very, very afraid that he would tell them to close the Wall. If that happened now, this late, there would be riots, tanks in the streets of Berlin. Piles of bodies, gutters full of blood.

Gorbachev had asked the East Germans how they had behaved. Their speaker, tentatively identified as Hans Modrow, potentially the new Prime Minister, had told the Kremlin chief nervously that they had decided it was right to accept the will of their people, instead of acting against them.

Gorbachev replied, "You are right."

Control sat back and closed his eyes. Relief surged through his veins like a drug. There would be no blood, no innocents killed, not in Berlin, not today.

Then he opened his eyes, set the teletype aside, and turned his attention to Bulgaria, where Zhivkov was also being replaced as Prime Minister. After 35 years in power, Control considered it unlikely that the tyrant would go down without a fight.

***

_Well there's too much traffic and I can't pass_   
_So I try my best illegal move_   
_A big black-and-white come an' touch my groove again_   
_Go on and write me up for 125_   
_Post my face Wanted dead or alive_   
_Take my license and all that jive_   
_I can't drive 55_

 

"Oh. My. God." Anne Keller fumbled blindly for a camera, any camera. She didn’t want to take her eyes off the scene in front of her.

"Amen to that," Lily answered quietly. "What do you need?"

"Ah … the Nikon." Anne dug through her pack, stashing the Kodak she’d been using. Lily came up with the Nikon. The big camera pack had been too heavy; they’d divided up the gear when they left the car, hours ago and miles back. Anne took the camera gratefully, checked the speed and the film. Plenty of film. But this crowd, so many faces – a hundred rolls of film wouldn’t be enough. She brought up the camera and started shooting. "How close are we?"

"Twenty-three blocks," Lily answered precisely. "Your feet holding up?"

"They’re okay," Anne lied. Her feet, in fact, hurt all the way to her knees, but she didn’t care. They hadn’t had a choice about the car. The highway, seven lanes wide, all inbound, had looked like a parking lot, and still did. They’d made good time on foot. But now, closer to the Wall, the pedestrian crowd was almost impassible.

"Tell me when you’re ready," Lily said patiently, "and I’ll get us closer."

Focus, shoot. Focus, shoot. Anne nodded. Whatever else Lily Romanov was, she’d turned out to be a hell of a good tour guide and assistant. The question ‘how’ flitted across her mind and vanished. It didn’t matter how; if Lily said she could do it, she could. "See if you can find another roll of 200," she said, not taking the camera from her face.

An old woman in gray held two wriggling, tow-headed toddlers, one on each arm. They were too heavy for her, a larger man had to hold her up, but she wouldn’t let them go. Tears streamed from her gray eyes. They were beautiful.

"I wish we could get higher," Anne murmured.

Lily located the film, stuffed it in her pocket, slung her pack, and grabbed Anne’s hand. "Come on."

Grinning, Anne snaked through the crowd after her. She’d have lost her in ten seconds without that hand. It was like being a kid again, holding hands with her best friend and zipping through the crowd, unstoppable because they were together.

Lily led her up the steps of an apartment building and popped the security lock with barely a pause. Still leading Anne by the hand, she sprinted up the center stairway.

"But where … what …" Anne panted.

On the top floor, Lily charged to the front of the hall and rapped sharply on the apartment door.

"We can’t just …" Anne protested.

A plump, older woman opened the door. "Da?"

Lily held up a camera. "This is Anne Keller, the photographer. Can she use your balcony for a minute?"

The woman stared at them. Anne doubted she spoke any English; surely Lily spoke German, didn’t she? But then the woman smiled broadly and stepped back. "Come in, come in, welcome! This way, this way!"

She led them across her cluttered living room to the French doors that opened onto a tiny balcony. Anne couldn’t spare the time to be impressed by Lily’s latest accomplishment. She had exactly the shot she wanted. She checked her settings swiftly, shot several pictures in each direction. The street below was packed with people. "Perfect," she murmured, "perfect!"

"You will celebrate with me?" the German woman said.

Anne turned. The woman held a silver tray, dust still clinging after a hasty wiping. On it were three slender glasses of clear liquid.

"Sure," Lily said.

"Wait," Anne countered before she could take the glass. "Please," she said to the older woman, "please, may I take your picture?"

The woman hesitated, then nodded, smiling shyly. Anne brought her onto the balcony, turned her so that her back was to the crowd, and shot her from just inside the doorway. It was a perfect picture: The old woman, so obviously and typically German, offering hospitality to strangers on her best silver, against the backdrop of wild celebration in the streets. The look on the woman’s face, excited, hopeful, fearful, lonely. Anne knew, even as she shot it, that it would go on her apartment wall – and would probably pay her rent for a year. If she took no other pictures today, this was the one she’d come for.

Unless there were more out there, and there were.

"I have no one to celebrate with," the woman said when Anne lowered the camera. "I’m so glad you came." She offered the glasses again, and the younger women each took one. She took her own, lifted it, hesitated. "It seems too soon to drink to peace."

"To absent friends," Lily suggested.

The old woman nodded solemnly. "And to those who have gone before."

They tossed the drinks back.

The liquor was, Anne thought, almost tasteless. Then her tongue caught fire. Then her throat, and then all the way down to the fireball in her stomach. "Oh," she breathed, and was a little surprised that no flames came out of her mouth.

"Another?" their hostess offered.

"No, thanks," Anne panted.

"We have to go," Lily said.

The old woman nodded. "I know."

"Thank you so much for helping us," Anne offered, trying to ease the woman’s renewed loneliness.

The woman simply patted her arm.

"If you go down to your front steps," Lily added quietly, "the whole world will come and celebrate with you."

The woman thought about this for a moment. Then she nodded with resolve. "You’re right, of course. Of course. I will get my coat."

They waited while she locked her apartment, then walked her down to the street. The old woman stayed there, on her stoop, but even before her door closed the neighbors were calling to her from their own steps.

Lily grabbed Anne’s hand and they were off again.

At a corner, they stopped long enough to share a beer to drown the vodka’s fire. "Let’s hit the safe house," Lily said. "You can stash some of the gear until you need it."

"Okay," Anne agreed uncertainly. "Am I allowed to be in the safe house?"

"You’re big on rules, aren’t you?"

"I just don’t want to get you in trouble."

Lily grinned. "Don’t worry about it. I almost sort of have permission for you to be here. Come on."

She took off again. This time she led off the main routes, through side streets and alleys and twice through someone’s yard. Anne was hopelessly lost, except that she knew they were still headed mostly east. Though the crowd no longer threatened to separate them, she still held Lily’s hand. We’re like schoolgirls, she thought. She’s the troublemaker, and I’m the one she’s leading astray.

It made her giggle.

Lily led her back toward the crowd. It was thicker than ever. "Hold tight," she said. "We’re almost there." Through the crowd, up the steps of a perfectly ordinary-looking building, three stories high, brick. There was a copper address plate. Lily blocked it from view with her body, pushed it aside to reveal a keypad. She glanced over to make sure that Anne was watching. "If you get separated," she said, "you come back here and let yourself in. 777-69-50. Lucky numbers. Can you remember that?"

"Jackpot, oral sex, cops," Anne repeated immediately.

"I think I love you." Lily keyed the numbers, pushed the door open, and officially escorted Anne Keller into the world of international espionage.

The place looked like a frat house after a weekend bender. It smelled like it, too.

Lily caught Anne’s look and laughed out loud. "Glamorous, huh? C’mon, we’ll find you a room."

"Uhh …" Anne followed, looking around. Worn couches, a chair with half the stuffing pulled out of the arm, take-out containers everywhere. A scratched-up stereo, a brand-new TV set. A frat house, she confirmed to herself. Lily was already climbing the stairs, and Anne followed quickly.

"Here," Lily said, pushing a door open. The room had two sets of bunks, all bare mattresses. There was a heap of folded bedding on one. Two tall metal storage cabinets completed the furnishing. Lily opened the closest cabinet. It was empty, except for a padlock on the center shelf. "Stow what you don’t need in here," she said, "and lock it up. Just don’t forget to leave the key when you pack out."

Anne dropped her gear on a bunk and started sorting, still looking around. "I guess I expected a lot more James Bond-y stuff."

"Uh-huh," Lily answered vaguely. "There are steel doors on every floor of this building. Don’t go picking any locks, okay?"

Anne gulped. "Okay. How are we going to find Mickey?"

"He’ll find us," Lily promised. "There’s a head – a bathroom, sorry – at the end of the hall, if you want to clean up. I’m gonna go get a sit rep. I’ll be back."

Anne watched her go, sorting swiftly. She found her safari jacket and put it on, stuffed her parka into the bottom of the storage cabinet. On reflection, she took the jacket back off and dug out a heavy wool sweater. She’s stolen it from Mickey’s dresser; it had reindeer on it, and she couldn’t imagine him wearing it anyhow. She put it on, then put the jacket back on over it. She stuffed all of the smaller pockets with blank film. Then she bagged the exposed rolls in a lead-lined zipper pouch and put it in the cabinet. She checked her spare cameras and tucked them into their assigned pockets. Checked her lenses and pocketed them as well. She grabbed a spare set of batteries – and then another – and tucked them into her back pocket.

It was an afterthought to carry her wallet and passport as well.

She stowed the rest of her gear and locked the cabinet, tucking the key into the inside breast pocket of the jacket and zipping it. She was, she thought with satisfaction, ready to safari.

Almost.

With a sigh, she took off the jacket again, laid it on the bunk, and went down the hall to the head. This one also had a sign on the wall, but at least is didn’t warn of entrapment. It merely said, 'Your mom called. She’s not coming to clean up after you any more. Take a hint.'

Anne shook her head and made her way back to the bunk room. The whole place was so damn quiet it gave her the creeps. Just outside, the city was going crazy, but in here … she passed a closed door, steel, and resisted the temptation to see if it was locked. She was suddenly very aware of how precarious her situation might be. She was inside a Company safe house alone, unescorted – she had no idea where Lily had gone – and unauthorized. Anyone besides Mickey or Lily who found her here was likely to ask a lot of questions. For all she knew, she was being watched every moment. She glanced around, but saw no cameras, which probably didn’t mean a damn thing either way.

She had purposely not asked much about the organization her lover worked for. What she knew about the intelligence community, she realized, was what little she had learned from Mickey and Robert McCall, and what she’s learned from watching James Bond.

James Bond never hung out in frat houses, so he wasn’t much help.

Maybe the rooms with the steel door were soundproof. Maybe that’s why the house had such a weird, empty vibe to it.

Anne shook her head impatiently. Maybe it was just that everybody was out partying.

She turned the corner into the bunk room. "Hey, girl."

Anne jumped. "Mickey!"

He stood up and wrapped his arms around her. She nestled her face against his neck, holding him tightly, only half in relief. She took a deep breath. He smelled – well, not wonderful, that wasn’t the word, but warm and familiar and safe. Her apprehensions about the house vanished. So did her memories of their last argument – almost.

"Good trip?" Mickey murmured.

"Uh … interesting, anyhow," Anne answered. "Lily caught us a medical flight, so I got to sleep most of the way."

"Good." He released her enough to lean back and look at her. "You hungry?"

Anne thought about it for a split second. "I’m starving," she realized.

He nodded. "C’mon, we got time for a quick bite."

"Time before what?"

"The East Germans are sending a crane to start demolition," Kostmayer answered. "I figured you'd want pictures."

"Demolition of the Wall?"

"Uh-huh."

"Damn straight I want pictures. How close can we get?"

Mickey shook his head. "Not very, but I can get you a great angle from the roof."

"Telephoto," Anne thought out loud. She moved out of his arms, picked up her vest and put it on, patted her pockets for the giant lens. "Okay. Let’s go." She started for the door, then paused. "Where’s Lily?"

"She’s around," Mickey answered. "Don’t worry about it."

The woman nodded. It seemed a little rude to just go off without saying something, but maybe she’d run into Lily later. She hoped so; she had no clear idea how she was going to get home without her. "I like her."

"Lily? Yeah. She’s very likable when she puts her mind to it."

Anne cocked her head. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Mickey."

He shrugged. "I like her too, a lot. But there’s way more to Lily Romanov than meets the eye. And not all of it is nice."

"Like you," Anne said, before she could stop herself.

Just like that, the argument was back between them.

Kostmayer regarded her calmly. "Yeah. Like me."

Anne could see the muted pain in his hazel eyes, so well-hidden that no one who hadn’t known him a lifetime could see it. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, especially now. "I’m sorry."

He shrugged, carefully indifferent. "For what?" His arms came up, crossed protectively over his chest.

She could feel him pulling away from her, feel him shutting down his emotions. She hated it. He had been so glad to see her, so open, and then she opened her big mouth … this once, she thought sternly to herself, just this once don’t lose your temper. "Thank you for getting me here. You went to an awful lot of trouble."

"No, I didn’t," Mickey said, "I just made a couple phone calls."

Anne watched him, watched the wariness recede a little from his eyes, from his posture. "Yeah, but it’s all about knowing which phone calls to make. You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?"

"Probably not."

"Is Lily?"

Kostmayer smirked, warming now that the fight had been averted. "Not a chance. She’s bullet-proof."

"Why?"

"Can’t tell you. And you wouldn’t believe me if I did."

"Well, that’s good to know, anyhow."

Mickey uncrossed his arms. "C’mon, I’ll find you something to eat before the crane shows up. After that the crowd should thin out some and I’ll get you to the Wall."

Anne grinned. "Why does that sounds so dirty when you say it?"

"Because you know me too well."

She took his hand and squeezed it. "Yes, I do. Let’s go."

***

_Can't you feel 'em circlin', honey_   
_Can't you feel 'em swimmin' around_   
_You got fins to the left, fins to the right_   
_And you're the only bait in town_

 

There were half a dozen agents – Anne assumed they were agents – on the roof of the building. Two of the men had radios and binoculars, and seemed to be actually working. Three more were clearly just observers; they all had mugs of beer. The sixth was a woman, a stunning, auburn-haired woman who kept glaring daggers at Mickey.

Anne stood at the very edge of the roof. Between the safe house and the gate, the people were packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Mickey was right, of course; they’d never get any closer than this. She let the camera with the telephoto lens rest on its strap around her neck. It was too heavy to hold up for any length of time. She shot crowd pictures with her wide-angle on the Kodak. It was cold, but the sky was brilliant clear blue. The prints would be spectacular.

There was no one celebrating on top of the Wall at the moment. Instead, East German soldiers stood there, spaced out to about six feet or so, keeping them off. They had guns, but they seemed to have forgotten about them. Every so often a flower or candy would sail up to them from the crowd. They were relaxed, joking around.

Anne caught another glare from the half-tone redhead. "Who is that?" she asked Mickey quietly.

He growled. "That’s Ginger. Don’t talk to her."

"She wants you."

"Yeah. In a pine box."

Anne shook her head and went on shooting. Aside from Ginger, the other agents barely seemed to notice her. She wondered what the cover story had been.

"There," Mickey said, pointing.

On the far side of the Wall, up the road, a battered old crane rumbled around the corner and made its way slowly to the Wall. A wrecking ball hung from a rusty chain from the end of the crane. It stopped, burping a cloud of blue-black smoke, and stopped.

Anne raised her bigger camera, braced the lens with her left hand and settled her elbow against her ribs. She began a very disciplined shoot, no more than one frame every fifteen seconds.

The soldiers moved back on from the crane, staying on top of the Wall but giving it plenty of clearance. The guard commander went and spoke to the crane's driver. The two of them laughed, shook hands, and the operator climbed back into his cab.

The crowd went quiet.

The crane fired, loud and grating in the new quiet, and also wonderful. The operator pushed levers, and the wrecking ball began to swing. It was slow at first, swinging in a bigger arc with every pass. The crowd began to swing with it, both their bodies and their voices raising and lowering with the ball.

The crane turned just a bit, and the ball hit the wall with a satisfying 'thwack.' It didn't actually do much damage, but the people at the Wall went crazy.

Anne Keller shot frames as fast as her camera could wind.

The crane continued to batter at the Wall until a large chunk of concrete fell from the top. Then the operator stopped and retreated, making way for the bulldozers that would have to remove the wreckage before he could continue. The crowd moved into the very tracks of the machine, eager hands tearing at the broken rocks on the ground. People pocketed tiny parcels, or carried away hunks as large as they would carry.

The bulldozers would not be necessary, not for this piece.

Anne's camera stopped. Her film had run out. She became aware that she looking straight down into the street. That she was, in fact, leaning way out from the edge of the roof, and that she would have fallen if not for the fact that someone was holding the back of her jeans. With a startled giggle, she leaned back and fell against Mickey, whose chilly fingers tickled her butt before he released his grip.

"Glad you were here for that," she said, flushed.

"Yeah," Kostmayer answered dryly, "me, too. Nothing like falling right into your work."

"Sorry. I got carried away."

He considered her for a moment, something sneaky behind his eyes. "Want to go up on the Wall?"

"We can’t. The soldiers …"

Mickey gestured. Anne turned and looked; the soldiers were climbing down, giving the surrendering the top of the Wall to the party crowd again. She turned back and grinned. "Yeah."

"Let’s go."

***


	5. Chapter 5

_Last year today seemed a long way away_   
_And ahead of me (the memory)_   
_A new face and street, people who meet you_   
_Instead of me (remember me)_   
_They bring you, they take you_   
_They own you, they make you_

 

The Berlin Wall was ten feet high. It should have been difficult to climb to the top – even without the threat of gunfire. But there was nothing to it. Mickey grabbed Anne by the waist and boosted her up, and the people already on the Wall reached down and dragged her up. Then they reached back for him.

Kostmayer stood there a moment, just looking around. Of all the places he thought he might end up in his life, this hadn’t even made the list. He was standing on the Wall. He was standing on the mother-loving Berlin Wall.

His whole career he had avoided or evaded this Wall. This Wall and all it stood for. Now the Wall was coming apart. There were people on the Wall, and people below, with hammers, tapping away little chunks of it. There was more heavy equipment coming in, jackhammers and cranes, bulldozers and dump trucks. The Wall was coming down.

Everything it had stood for was coming down.

Beyond the dust, Mickey could already see the clouds of new troubles. The unrest in the opened states. Ethnic rivalries, buried for decades. Grudges. Power vacuums and power grabs. The whole Eastern Bloc would go up like a tinderbox, if the Soviets folded too fast. It would become Eastern Hell. But right here, right now …

He turned, and realized that he’d been canting over the edge, that Anne had him by the belt, as he’d held her on the roof earlier. He caught his balance and caught her in his arms, kissed her thoroughly. "So, this is what I do at work," he said loudly.

"I like it," she yelled back. "Every day’s a party."

"Well, some days are better than others." Somewhere a boom box started again, American rock, naturally. The crowd cheered, and began to dance. People on the edge fell off, but it didn’t matter; the crowd below caught them and heaved them back up.

Anne got her elbows down and finally got her camera out. The people closest to her began posing, crowding each other to get in every shot, making faces, sticking their fingers in their ears, making bunny ears behind their friends. She obligingly took their pictures anyhow.

She moved along the Wall, through the crowd. Mickey followed her with some difficulty, sometimes falling behind, sometimes catching up. She glanced back. "This is great!" she shouted over the music. "These are going to be the best shots."

Mickey grinned. "I thought you’d like it."

"I love it!" She kissed him quickly, then turned back to the crowd shots.

"And me?" he asked, close behind her.

"What?"

"Do you love me?"

She glanced back again, distracted and a little confused. "What?"

"Do you love me?" Mickey asked again.

"Of course I love you." She turned again, her camera up.

Kostmayer caught her elbow with one hand, brought the jeweler’s box out with the other the popped it open. He waited until she looked back again. "Will you marry me?"

Anne’s mouth came open. "What?"

He grinned self-consciously, thinking that he might have found a quieter place to ask. "Will you marry me?" He stuck the box out towards her.

The crowd shifted and surged, and half a dozen partiers fell off the Western side, screeching in surprise and delight. Anne spun back around to shoot them as they fell, leaning out to capture the joyful catches below, the body surfing as the celebrators were set on their feet unharmed. She very nearly fell with them, and Mickey struggled to hold her up and keep his own balance.

She turned back, her eyes serious and sad. She reached for the box, but did not take it; instead, she snapped it closed and folded his hand over it. Then she answered his question. "No."

***

_Let me hear your balalaikas ringing out_   
_Come and keep your comrade warm._   
_I’m back in the USSR._

 

Lily Romanov moved along the top of the Wall carefully, weaving between the dancers. It would have been faster and easier to get to her destination on the ground, but she could not resist this chance.

"Beautiful comrade! Have some vodka!"

Lily barely glanced at the big Russian. She took his bottle, drank deeply, and handed it back, almost without breaking her stride. It was nothing, just strangers celebrating together, as were all the people of the divided city.

Another time, a quieter place, he could give her whatever documents he'd procured from the Soviet embassy. For the moment, the spies were off duty. He winked, as any man might wink at a pretty girl, and they went their separate ways.

***

_Well, it ain’t no fun_   
_Staring straight down a forty-four._   
_Well he turned and screamed at Linda Lu_   
_And that’s the break I was looking for._   
_And you could hear me screaming a mile away_   
_As I was headed out towards the door._

 

Kostmayer glided through the party that filled the streets of Berlin. He wanted to be angry, to be furious, but it wouldn’t come. Instead, he was just cold and empty. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He went back to the safe house because he didn’t know where else to go. The door was locked, as always; he pushed aside the copper address plate and keyed the combination into the pad. As he opened the door, a wall of sound hit him – ‘Dirty Deeds’ played at a volume that threatened the plaster on the walls. Swearing, he crossed the front room and snapped the stereo off.

The silence was a little unnerving. "Hello?" he called softly.

"Hey," Romanov answered from the next room, "who killed the jams?" She appeared in the doorway with half a sandwich in her hand.

"That crap’ll rot your brain," he answered. He went and took a bite of the sandwich. "Thought you’d be out partying."

"Yeah," she answered, "I thought I’d better soak up some of the vodka." She gestured with the sandwich. "Where’s your woman?"

"Ain’t got one," Mickey answered briskly. He took the rest of the sandwich from her. "She said no." He took another bite.

"Say what?"

He shrugged, chewing. "She said no."

"Why?"

"Don’t know." A third bite, and the sandwich was gone.

"Did you ask?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Mickey wiped his hand on his jeans. "Cause I don’t care."

"Okay," Lily answered. "I am suitably impressed by your muy macho show of nonchalance. Now give."

He shrugged, ran his fingers through his hair. "She says we never talk about stuff."

"You don’t," Lily agreed. She went back to the kitchen. Mickey followed her. Lily opened the refrigerator, and they both gazed into it forlornly. Finally she took out a can of Coke, opened it, and took a long slug.

"We talk," Mickey said, taking the Coke.

Romanov eyed him. "Can I get you a snack, Kostmayer, or are you just going to steal all of mine?"

"Yours are better."

She sighed and went back for another soda. "So what don’t you talk about?"

"How would I know?"

"You could ask Anne."

Mickey shrugged. "It doesn’t matter. It’s over." His voice was flat, emotionless.

"Uh-huh. So you had me enter a church, talk to a priest, scam Control and fly your girlfriend half-way around the world illegally, and now it’s just over."

There was a flash of pain in Mickey’s eyes and then it was gone, hidden. "Yeah."

"You are so full of shit."

"What do you want me to do, Lily? I can’t just talk her into it."

"Have you tried?" she challenged.

The pain returned, and this time stayed. "You know I don’t … I can’t … I’m no good at dealing with people that way. I’m, uh, you know, the action guy."

Lily smirked. She opened the refrigerator again, but there was still nothing she wanted in there. "Were you two having trouble before this?" She shut the door, moved to the cookie cupboard.

Kostmayer hesitated. "Some, yeah."

"What about?" She took an Oreo from an open bag, squeezed it, found it mushy, put it back in the pack, and put the whole package back in the cupboard. She got an unopened bag and tore it open, handed a stack to Mickey and got more for herself.

He hesitated through the whole cookie operation. "About … how our lives fit together. Or don’t. Between her going and me going …" He opened an Oreo and scraped the cream off with his top teeth.

"And you thought an engagement ring would fix that?"

"I thought it would … define the parameters of our arrangement."

Lily stared at him.

"I thought if we were married," Mickey explained desperately, "things would settle down."

"Ah." She took a big swig of Coke. "How?"

"What?"

"How are Mickey and Annie married different from Mickey and Annie dating?"

He shrugged, hesitant again. "I don’t know. We'd live together, for one thing. You know, have dinner, wash the dishes, help the kids with their homework …"

"When you’re both in town. What about when you’re both gone?"

"Uh …"

"Does Anne even want kids?"

"Of course she does. She … uh …"

Lily gazed at him again.

"I think she does," he finished lamely.

"That’s a deal breaker right there," Lily said. "One of a dozen I can see right off the top. You need to talk to her, Mickey."

"I can’t," he protested sadly. "I don’t even know how."

Lily reached out and cupped his cheek very lightly with her palm. "You talk to me, Mickey. How is it any different?"

"It’s different."

"How?"

Kostmayer sighed, covering her hand with his own. "Because I’m not in love with you. If we argue, I know you’re not going to just leave."

"And you think she is?"

"I … guess so."

"From where I stand …" she stopped, studied his eyes for a long moment. They’d known each other for years. They’d been under fire together, run together, slept huddled together for warmth more than once – and he’d finished every sandwich she’d ever made in his presence. She knew this man. Action guy, indeed. There was a time for talk, and this wasn’t it.

She drew her hand away gently. "C’mon," she said briskly, "I gotta find some body bags." She left the kitchen and trotted up the stairs.

Kostmayer frowned in confusion and went after her. "Why? You expecting casualties?"

"At the rate we’re drinking out there? You better believe it." She went into the storage room, rustled around, came back out empty-handed. "I’m taking part of the Wall back with me, and I need something sturdy to pack it in."

Lily went into one of the holding cells. It was a stark little room, windowless, white, a steel-frame bed welded to the floor, a stainless commode and sink, a steel door. Properly prepared, the room was escape-proof, or very nearly so. But it hadn’t been used in months. Spare linen was stacked on the foot on the bed, and boxes of supplies were stuffed underneath and piled against the wall.

"I don’t think they’re in here," Mickey gruffed.

"Yes, they are. They’re still in the case." She flopped onto the floor and started dragging boxes out from under the bed. "Sit," she said, gesturing to the bed. "Talk to me."

Kostmayer sat down. "There’s nothing to talk about. She said no. It’s over."

"So you don’t love her any more." She dragged out a long, flat box. "Ah-ha."

"Of course I still love her," Mickey protested. He fielded the body bag Lily tossed up to him, and then another.

"But not enough to try to talk it out."

"It’s not that simple." He caught a third bag; their combined weight threatened to bury him. "How many of these do you need?"

"One more." Lily clambered to her feet. "Fold this." She threw the fourth bag at his head.

Mickey pushed it away, his hands tangled in the fabric, the other three heavy on his legs. He felt cold on his left wrist, a snap, and when he tried to move his arm away, he couldn’t.

He shoved the body bag away and glared at the handcuff that bound his wrist to the bed frame, and then at Romanov, who had moved out of his reach. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?" he demanded, his voice crackling like ice.

"You need to talk to Anne," Lily answered simply.

"Let me go. Right. Now."

"Talk to Anne. Then she’ll let you go."

Kostmayer yanked his arm savagely. All it did was hurt his wrist; the bed didn’t even rattle. "Romanov," he growled, "you know this won’t hold me." He yanked at the cuff one more time.

"I know." She backed away, toward the steel door that would hold him.

"Don’t do this," he warned one last time.

She backed another step.

Kostmayer drew his gun and aimed it at her heart. "Unlock the cuff," he ordered, very precisely, "right now."

Lily’s eyes never left him. "No."

"I will shoot you, Romanov."

She believed him; he could see it in her posture. But she didn’t back down. "I love you, Mickey. You know that. But from where I stand, you’re the one who always leaves. If you love her, if you want her, just this once, Mickey, don’t leave."

"Romanov!"

"And besides, if you shoot me, who’s going to make your sandwiches?"

She was two steps from the door.

"Lily!" Kostmayer bellowed.

Romanov turned and fled.

"God damn it!" he shouted as the door closed behind her. "I will catch you, Romanov! And I will break your neck!"

From outside, he heard the door’s multiple latches lock.

***

_Friday night they'll be dressed to kill_   
_Down at Dino's bar and grill_   
_The drink will flow and blood will spill_   
_If the boys want to fight, you'd better let them_

 

Pete O’Phelan poured Robert a cup of coffee even before he reached the bar. "Are you going?" she asked without preamble.

McCall glanced up. The television over the bar, usually tuned to some sports channel, carried the on-going celebration at the Wall. "To Berlin?" He shook his head. "Perhaps in a few weeks when things settle down."

"To the party," Pete clarified. "Romanov called you, didn’t she?"

"Yes," Robert sighed. "Also Stock, and Jimmy, and Charlie McGuinn. I think Charlie’s afraid he’ll be the oldest one there."

"So? Are you going?"

"Are you?" Robert countered.

Pete shook her head. "I don’t think so. I’ve been out of the Company for a long time."

"So have I."

She raised a knowing eyebrow. "I’ve been really out, Robert." She glanced at the television. "Still … I bet it’ll be a hell of a party."

"A chance to catch up with old friends, at the very least." McCall considered the woman over his coffee cup. In his opinion, which he’d voiced on several occasions, Pete O’Phelan spent far too much time at the restaurant, and far too much time on her own. She needed to get out, to have some fun once in a while. This party was the perfect opportunity. But it was becoming obvious that, though she wanted to go, she wouldn’t unless he did. "Rock music," he said ruefully, "punk agents, way too much drinking, far too many old war stories."

"True."

Robert sighed. "I’ll go if you will."

Pete smiled, relieved. "I hoped you’d say that."

"I’ll drive," he offered. "That way you can get irresponsibly smashed."

"Oh, won’t that be fun?" she teased. "I’m sure Control will be glad to have us there, anyhow."

"Hmmm. Adult supervision." McCall nodded thoughtfully, sipping his coffee. Of course Control would be there; if nothing else, he’d never pass up a chance to see how his agents behaved when they were off the clock.

"Sundays are pretty slow for dinner," Pete said. "I could probably get out of here by eight, eight-thirty."

"I’ll pick you up here then, shall I?" Robert offered. "Unless you want to go home and change first."

Pete shook her head. "I don’t have the impression it’s a dress-up sort of party."

"No," McCall agreed. "More like clothing-optional."

She laughed. "Now there’s a visual that’ll stay with me all day."

As she moved off to ring out a customer, Robert shook his head. He didn’t want to go, really, but for Pete’s sake … and perhaps it would prove entertaining, after all. McGuinn would be there, and he and Robert always had a good time together. Other friends, too, were sure to show up. It would be bearable.

If nothing else, it would allow him to see Control and Lily Romanov together in a social setting together. It had been ages since he’d even seen them in the same room. No doubt they’d both be on their best secretive behavior, but it intrigued him, anyhow.

He took a deep drink of coffee. It was dark, but not bitter. Pete O’Phelan made the best coffee in the world.

When he’d first learned of Control’s affair with a much younger subordinate, Robert remembered, he had been furious. He’d assumed that his old friend was only using the girl for sex. It had taken time for him to believe that Control genuinely loved the young woman, and more time to believe that Lily wasn’t the helpless debutante she appeared to be. When she was captured and tortured in Nicaragua –

Robert shook his head. He could not, he supposed, be entirely faulted for being rather protective of her. After what she’d been through, it was natural for him to assume that she was perhaps not quite as strong or self-sufficient as other agents he knew. It was deeply ingrained in his nature to defend the helpless. But it was more than that, he had to admit to himself. Every protective instinct he’d had came into play where Lily Romanov was concerned, even after she’d recovered. He had never, in his mind, quite put her on the same level with Mickey or Stock, Ginger or any of the others. He had always presumed that she needed a little extra protection.

He had never truly considered Lily Romanov an equal until she had unequivocally betrayed him.

She had proven herself every bit as ruthless as Control, or as Robert himself. McCall had had to admit to himself, once he stopped being angry, that he greatly – if grudgingly – admired her for it.

That admiration had been easier to acknowledge, of course, once Gustav Freda and his family were safely established in a home outside Chicago.

Two months after they’d smuggled him out of Yugoslavia, Austria had opened its borders. If they had waited, they could have just walked him out.

McCall shrugged. Given what the old man had known, given the hands that had waited to snatch him up, things were better as they had been. The warheads had been recovered, the bad guys were dead or in custody, and Robert and Lily were on a solidly even, if mutually watchful, footing.

Which did not, Robert thought firmly, mean that he completely endorsed her relationship with Control. Far from it. He was still convinced that someday she would take a bullet – another bullet – from one of his many enemies. Still, the relationship had been undeniably good for both of them.

Robert shook his head, finished his coffee. Whatever else, this party ought to be damned interesting.

***

_I went home with a waitress the way I always do_   
_How was I to know she was with the Russians, too?_   
_I was gambling in Havana. I took a little risk._   
_Send lawyers, guns, and money. Dad, get me out of this._

 

Mickey Kostmayer lay back on the bed, conserving his energy, seething, waiting. The handcuffs lay on the floor beside him in pieces. He probably could have picked them without breaking them, if he’d cared, but he hadn’t. He’d studied the door in a token manner, but he’d already known it was probably escape-proof. He’d known because he helped design it, and when it was done he’d helped test the final results.

Romanov had known all that, of course.

He turned his head casually and glared at the observation window in the west wall of the room. He couldn’t tell if he was being watched or not. If he was, he was damned determined not to put on a good show for them. He rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling again, his eyes narrowing to angry slits.

He let himself imagine, in delicious detail, the feel of Lily Romanov’s slender little neck under his hands. He didn’t usually kill people up close. A gun shot from ten yards was a sure bet and left them just as dead. But then, he usually killed as a part of his job, emotionlessly, impersonally.

This killing would be very personal, and it would be full of rage.

That Lily – Lily, of all people – would do this to him, that she would betray him so thoroughly, leave him so helpless, was much more than he could stand. After all he’d done for her, after they’d been through so much together. It could only have been more shocking if Robert McCall himself had betrayed him. It cut him right to the quick.

He should have expected it.

After the stunt she’d pulled on McCall with Freda, turning their defector over to the Brits, he should have known she was capable of anything. He could still hear the echoes of Robert’s rants. She was untrustworthy, she was devious, she had no conscience, no loyalty. She was Control’s creature, through and through, she would betray anyone at his command …

… well, that had turned out all right, in the end. Mickey could even see the logic to it, but the point was that she’d betrayed them all …

He should have listened to McCall. He should have expected it.

He was as angry about getting caught flat-footed as he was about what she’d done. He’d trusted Lily. Even after Freda, he’d trusted her. So here he was. Locked in a cell in his own safe house, a cell he’d helped to build, with East German agents wandering through the open Gate, maybe intent on taking over the safe house right now, and here he was, helpless, because of a courier half his size.

Well, no, he realized, not completely helpless. He had both guns, and two knives and a stiletto. God help anyone who came through that door after him.

Then again … he glanced at the observation window, then glanced away. He hoped it was East Germans who came through the door, instead of one of his colleagues. If they found out about this, he was never going to hear the end of it. If it was Ginger who opened the door … well, he might as well just shoot her, there’d be no living with her.

He glared back at the ceiling. Oh, the guys could ride him all they wanted, but the truth was, Lily could have done it to any one of them. Everybody trusted Lily, or at least discounted her as a threat. Even when Mickey should have known better, he’d trusted her. That would never, never happen again. She wasn’t his friend, and maybe she never had been. It hurt like hell to have to admit that.

He closed his eyes and heard McCall’s frozen, angry voice calling him a traitor from a drug-induced fog. The crisp, tight words from his friend ripped through him like razors, filling him with shame and outrage and grief over losing his friend …

But that had been lies. That hadn’t really happened. This had. This was real. Lily had betrayed and entrapped him. Whether he acted out of rage or embarrassment or grief, he was going to kill her for it.

He held that cold satisfaction to his heart and felt everything else freeze.

Anne gone. Lily gone. Maybe he needed to give up on woman entirely, as friends and lovers.

He opened his eyes narrowly again. Men as friends, great. Men as lovers? Not so great. Maybe Nick had been right all along. Maybe celibacy was the answer.

Mickey sighed.

Not that it probably mattered, anyhow. Once he’d killed Lily Romanov, he’d have to spend the rest of his probably-brief life waiting for Control to come after him. There was no doubt in his mind that the old man would avenge his lover, and Mickey’d been there to see first-hand just how cold and effective Control’s vengeance could be. He might stay alive for a while – Kostmayer was faster, younger, stronger, but sooner or later, if he killed Romanov, he was going to end up dead by Control’s hand.

He knew. He just didn’t care.

It wasn’t like he’d ever had much to live for, anyhow. A job he mostly hated, a brother he barely understood, a couple close friends and one great love, now gone.

Suddenly restless, he sat up and rubbed his hand over his face. Was that really it, then? Were he and Annie really done? After he’d loved her, near and far, his whole adult life, was it really ended?

And if it was, why?

In the dark corners of his mind, he realized, hiding behind his rage, he knew why. But he wouldn’t drag the answers out into the light. They didn’t matter. They would boil down to ‘all Mickey’s fault’, same as always, so why bother? He knew why well enough. Because he was an impossible bastard. Because no one would live with him. Reason enough.

The rage he felt at Lily, the shadows whispered, was really for Anne – no, for himself.

Mickey shrugged. It didn’t matter. It was settled. He’d kill Lily, Control would kill him, and none of it would matter for long.

Oh, yes, he could change things, he could be reasonable, but he didn’t want to. He wanted his rage, and then he wanted his death.

Without warning, the watch door set inside the main door opened. "Mickey?" Anne called nervously.

Kostmayer snapped to his feet. "Open the door, Anne."

He heard two of the four locks being worked. Then she stopped. "Open the door, Anne," he said again.

"Lily says I should make you talk to me before I let you out."

"You’re taking advice from a dead woman," Mickey answered under his breath. He walked to the door and put his face up to the observation hatch. Anne was close enough to grab, but she stepped back, looking at him nervously. "Open the door, Anne," he repeated, very firmly.

"Mickey, please, can’t we try to …"

"I am not," he announced, without heat, "discussing anything with you through a locked cell door."

"If I open it," Anne argued, "you’ll just go skulking off again, like you always do."

"Open the door, Anne," Kostmayer said for a fourth and final time.

"If I do, you have to promise to stay and talk with me."

Mickey stepped back and moved to the right side of the door, against the wall, where she couldn’t see him through the hatch. He did not answer.

"Mickey?" she called. Then, her voice very close to the window, "Mickey?"

He folded his arms over his chest, settled his shoulder against the wall, and waited.

"Damn it, Mickey! Talk to me!"

A sarcastic smile twisted at his mouth. He waited.

She didn’t last two minutes. With an audible growl of frustration, Anne undid the last two locks and opened the door.

Mickey smiled icily at her. "Thank you. Where’s Romanov?"

"She’s gone," Anne replied. "Damn it, Mickey, can’t we just …"

She reached to touch his arm. He grabbed her wrist firmly and held her hand away from him. "Gone where?"

"I don’t know. She asked me to give her a five-minute head start."

Mickey released her arm. "How long ago?"

"I told you, five minutes."

"She was here?"

"In there, watching over you." Anne gestured to the observation window. "What, you thought she’d just leave you locked up and defenseless? Here? Even I know better than that."

"Good," Kostmayer snarled. He turned and crouched beside the bunk, pulled out the boxes of gear. He didn’t need a body bag, not yet. But he’d seen something else while Lily was rummaging. With grim satisfaction, he drew out a shiny new pair of courier cuffs – handcuffs with a three-foot long chain. He snapped the chain experimentally. It would do just fine.

"What are you doing?" Anne demanded.

"I’m going," he announced, "to find Romanov." He coiled the chain into loops and put the cuffs in his pocket.

"Are you crazy? She was trying to help us!"

Mickey drew his gun, check its load grimly. "Help like hers, I don’t need." Satisfied, he put the gun away.

"You are crazy! Damn it, Mickey, you can’t …"

"Don’t tell me what I can’t do," Kostmayer snarled.

Anne took a step toward the door.

"Don’t even think about it," he warned.

She took a breath – a dead give-away – and then she bolted for the door. Mickey beat her by half a step and wedged his shoulder in the doorway, immovable. "What? You think you’re gonna lock me back in here?"

"If that’s what it takes!" Anne shouted. "You can’t hurt her, Mickey. She’s your friend, she’s trying to help you." She grabbed his arm. "Mickey, please …"

"Let. Go."

She flinched at his frozen, brutal tone, but she didn’t back down. "Mickey, please," she said more quietly, "please, forget about Lily. Talk to me."

Kostmayer glared at her hand where it touched him, then back at her face. "Let go."

Reluctantly, slowly, she took her hand away.

His expression did not soften. "We got nothing to talk about."

A change came over her. The anger disappeared from her face, and from her voice. Suddenly there was sadness and resignation. She nodded grimly. "Maybe you’re right, Mickey. Maybe we really don’t have anything left to say."

Her sudden retreat caught Mickey’s attention in a way her shouting had not. But time was slipping away, and so was Lily Romanov. "I gotta go," he said, his tone much more human than it had been.

"You always do," she answered sadly.

"I’ll be back," Mickey promised suddenly.

"I won’t be here."

"I’ll find you, then."

Anne shook her head. There were tears in her eyes, but her voice stayed even, calm. "Don’t bother. We got nothing to talk about." She pushed past him into the hall, turned the corner to the bunk room.

Mickey stared after her. A sudden, very loud instinct told him to go after her. While she was yelling, he understood her. The sudden quiet …

But Lily was out there, and his rage was still bright hot. Lily first, Lily first. Then he’d sort things out with Anne – if there was anything left to sort out.

He patted his pockets one last time, and he headed for the street.

***


	6. Chapter 6

_An innocent bystander_   
_Who forgets to look both ways_   
_Who never tries to understand her_   
_Won't feel the heat 'til it's too late_

The instant Kostmayer stepped out the front door, he knew it was hopeless. The crowd had thinned some, but now the weekenders were arriving. The streets were packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Lily Romanov was small, brunette, probably wearing a dark coat. She could vanish into the scenery better than anyone Mickey knew – himself included. This crowd was custom-made for disappearing. He wasn’t going to find her on the street.

His eyes narrowed as he glanced up. Maybe from above, if he could get high enough. It would still be a matter of dumb luck, but it was better than no chance. He wheeled and keyed himself back into the safe house, then ran up all the stairs to the roof.

Two men – Fletcher, who Mickey barely knew, and another he didn’t know at all – were watching the Wall and the crowd with binoculars. Naturally, given the way Mickey’s luck was running, Ginger was with them.

He grabbed a loose pair of binoculars and joined them at the edge of the roof. He scanned the crowd for a moment. Then, as casually as he could manage, he asked, "Anybody seen Romanov?"

The strange guy – Bailey? Bartie? – nodded. "She was up at the embassy, schmoozing with the Marine commander. But that was a couple hours ago."

Kostmayer nodded grimly. If she ducked into a shop or a bar, stood quietly in a doorway, he’d never find her.

"But your girlfriend’s right there," Ginger said.

Mickey followed her gesture with his glasses. Annie was easy to pick out of the crowd. The red hair, the tan jacket, the hundred pounds of camera. She was ten feet from the Wall, moving north with the throng. Her camera was everywhere. "She’s not my girlfriend," he muttered.

"Yeah, right," Ginger snorted. "Control’s personal photographer. Nice work if you can get it."

Mickey turned to glare at her, but his usual smart-ass retort wouldn’t come. He looked back through the spyglasses, watching Anne move. He didn’t like where she was in the crowd. Too close, too tight. No where to go if something went wrong, no way to retreat; therefore, in his calculation, dangerous. But not to her. Anne moved with the flow, perfectly at ease, calm. Taking her pictures. Living her pictures. They would be spectacular, and very personal, like all her other work.

She’s not my girlfriend, he repeated to himself. The subtle pride he felt in her accomplishments was no longer his to claim. Anne Keller was no longer his. She’s not my girlfriend.

He still had her engagement ring in his pocket. How the hell had they come unraveled so fast?

"You know," Ginger said with an arch, subtle sneer, "my boyfriend could use some extra bucks. Think Control could use him?"

Mickey regarded her narrowly. "Does he have any talent?"

She smirked suggestively. "He has loads of talent."

"Yeah. I don’t think Control swings that way."

"Asshole."

"Bitch." But it was a mechanical response, without heat. Annie through binoculars, floating through the crowd, talking, shooting, smiling. Unbelievable pictures. Moving away from him. She wasn’t his girlfriend any more.

He put the glasses down and rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t going to find Romanov. He’d thrown Annie away. His anger lost its focus, grew cold, banked for the moment by reality. He couldn’t find Romanov here and now, but he knew where she lived and where she worked. He would find her. He would settle up with her.

The long-chained cuffs in his pocket had a satisfying weight to them.

Here and now, he didn’t know what to with himself.

Shaking his head, he went back inside.

***

_Strange things happen to a man on the road_   
_Strange things happen to a man who's alone_   
_Back home you gotta solid life_   
_That life don't mean a thing out here_

 

Robert heard his phone ringing as he came up the hall, but ignored it. That was, after all, what he had an answering machine for. As he entered the apartment, he heard the caller hang up on the machine. As he hung up his coat, though, the phone began to ring again.

He snagged it. "Robert McCall."

"Hey. It’s me."

"Mickey," Robert said cheerfully. "How are you?"

"I been better."

"I thought you were in Berlin."

"I am."

"One big party in the street, how can you sound so glum?" Robert tugged his tie loose absently.

"Kind of a long story. Listen, McCall, I might need a favor."

"Oh. Go on."

"Anne's here, taking pictures. She’s kinda under the Company flag, and Control wants to look at all her pictures before they hit the magazines. So when she gets back, if they don’t want her to use her own darkroom, she might need to use your place to develop the prints. I don’t want her in the office."

"Of course. That would be fine."

"I’ll let you know when she gets back, how it’s going to play out."

"Fine, fine. I’d be happy to help. Now tell me why you really called."

There was a discernable pause. "I just did, McCall."

"No, you just told me your excuse for calling. Now the real reason."

"It’s nothing."

"Yes, of course it is."

Another pause, longer, and finally Mickey said, "I asked Annie to marry me."

Robert grinned at the phone. "That’s wonderful, Mickey. Congratulations."

"She said no."

"She what?"

"She said no."

"Why?"

"I don’t know."

"Did you ask her?"

Kostmayer began to sound exasperated. "Of course I asked her."

"Yes, and what did she say?"

"She says we never talk about anything."

"She’s absolutely right."

There was another long pause. "I gotta go, McCall."

"Michael Kostmayer, don’t you dare hang up on me!"

The next pause lasted perhaps ten seconds, and Robert could see in his mind’s eye Mickey standing there with the receiver halfway to the cradle, debating. But finally, reluctantly, the younger man’s voice said, "Yeah. What?"

"Where is Annie now?" Robert asked briskly.

"Out taking pictures of the Wall."

"And you’re going to go find her, and you’re going to sort this out with her, straightaway. Right?"

"What’s the point, McCall?" Mickey snapped. "She doesn’t love me. All the talking in the world is not …"

"Mickey, you’re being a dunce."

"What?"

"She doesn’t love you," McCall snorted. "Of course she loves you. You’re being a great dunce, and stubborn, I imagine, and you’re letting the woman who loves you get away."

"McCall, you don’t understand …"

"I understand perfectly, Mickey. Just because I’m a crusty old bachelor, don’t presume that I don’t know a thing or two about affairs of the heart. I was falling in love when you were still messing your nappies. So you listen very closely, young man. You will put down the telephone and you will go find Anne Keller and you will do whatever it takes to win her hand. Do you understand me? Whatever it takes."

Robert could hear Kostmayer’s glare in the silence. If looks could kill, he was bloody lucky there was an ocean between them. But no matter. He was right, and he knew his young friend knew it.

"You’re a pain in the ass sometimes, you know that, McCall?"

"Likewise, I’m sure. Good luck." McCall put down the phone, gently. Then he sighed, shook his head, and went to get a drink.

***

_I will follow you will you follow me_   
_All the days and nights that we know will be_   
_I will stay with you will you stay with me …_

Mickey Kostmayer moved through the crowd like a tiger through high grass, intent on his prey. He had one hand in his pocket. He fondled the cold metal of the handcuffs as he moved. No time for uncertainty, not now; he moved with familiar, decisive precision.

He gained on the woman, despite the crowd, aided by the fact that she stopped often. Five people separated them, and then three, and then one. He waited while she took another picture and lowered the camera, waited until her left hand came down. Then he grabbed it with his free hand.

She snapped around, but he was faster. Before she saw him he’d snapped one of the cuffs around her wrist. "What the hell?" she exclaimed, and her right arm came around, camera and all, aimed at the side of his head.

Mickey grabbed her wrist, stopped her in mid-swing and held her there. "Easy," he said quietly, "it’s just me."

Her eyes registered this, but it didn’t make her any less angry. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?" Anne hissed.

"Shh, shh," Mickey soothed. "Just listen a minute, just listen …"

She jerked fiercely at the chain. "Let me go right this minute."

Don’t like it either, do you, Mickey thought bitterly. But he shoved it out of his mind. "Here. Here’s the key." He pressed the key into the palm of her hand. "You unlock it whenever you want. Take the cuff off, walk away. You have the key. You make the call."

Anne stared at him, confused and still a little frightened. He tried to call up his best crooked smile, but it wouldn’t come. He was frightened, too. "Annie, please," he said, very softly.

A hand the size and weight of a whole ham landed on his shoulder. "This guy bothering you, ma’am?" a deep Texas bass demanded.

Kostmayer turned, annoyed. He looked the intruder squarely in the chest. The chest was as Texas-sized as the voice. Well, he thought, coiling, the bigger they are, the harder they hit you.

"No, it’s okay," Anne answered quickly. She lifted her hand and tugged the chain lightly; Mickey could feel her trace it to the end, to the cuff around his right wrist. She got it, at least some of it. "He’s just a … a …"

"A romantic fool," Mickey supplied.

The massive American considered the two of them. "Well, all right then," he thundered, and vanished into the crowd.

Mickey turned back to Anne. She studied his face, still confused, but now unafraid. Her fingers toyed with the cuff on his wrist. "Mickey," she asked softly, "what the hell are you doing?"

"I’m trying …" he began, and unexpectedly his voice caught. He blinked, looked down, licked his lips. The crowd pushed them closer together, or maybe it was just Anne moving to him; either way, her closeness gave him comfort and courage. He looked up again. "I’m trying to fix this," he said simply.

Anne frowned. "With handcuffs?"

"I’m staying with you," Mickey explained. "I’m staying until you unlock the cuffs and tell me to go. I want to … to … try to talk this out. I don’t know if we can – if I can – but I want to try. Please, Annie, let me try."

"Oh, Mickey." Her hand came up, chain and all, and touched his cheek. He could see in her eyes that there was no question. Of course she would give him another chance. His heart lurched, and just for a moment he couldn’t speak. He turned his head and kissed her palm.

The crowd buffeted them again. "Let’s go somewhere quiet," Anne suggested.

"No," Mickey answered firmly. "You will never get pictures like this again."

"It doesn’t matter …"

"God, I love you for that," he blurted. He caught her behind the neck and kissed her, hard. "But it matters. You take your pictures. Go wherever you want, I’ll come with you. We’ll talk as we go."

Anne smiled, shaking her head. "I thought you were taking me to your work, not the other way around."

Mickey shrugged, his own crooked smile returning. "Well, I try not to be a chauvinist about these things."

"Yeah? Since when?"

"Since your career started paying better than mine."

Anne sobered. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Mickey answered tersely.

She stared at him, waiting for more. "Because sometimes you act like it bothers you."

"It doesn’t."

"Oh." Anne looked down and toyed with the camera.

Mickey sighed. Talking, they were supposed to be talking. He was supposed to be talking. He took a deep breath. "I love your work, Anne. I love that you’re successful. I love it that you’re getting the recognition that you deserve. You have a huge talent, and you’ve worked your ass off, and you deserve it. And – and I’m really proud of you, even though I don’t really think I have any right to be." He paused for breath. "Your mouth is open."

"That was amazing," Anne answered warmly. "I don’t remember the last time you said that many words in a row."

Kostmayer felt his cheeks grow warm. "Yeah, well. It’s all true." He pointed past her shoulder. "Look."

There was a crowd of students on top of the Wall again. They were helping a very old man climb up to them. He wore a black suite and a black fedora and a bow tie. Anne raised her camera and shot as he was hoisted up, as he was steadied by the welcoming, turbulent hands of the Wall dancers. As he reached into his jacket and brought out a jeweler’s tiny silver hammer. As he knelt, still protected and supported by the youngsters. As he raised his tradesman’s tool and brought it down defiantly on the reviled concrete that had broken his city.

His frail blows were largely ineffective, raising only dust, but the crowd applauded his gesture anyhow. He struck the Wall over and over, wincing as every blow wracked his gnarled hand, but jubilant beyond words.

Anne Keller wiped her eyes impatiently on her sleeve and kept shooting until the old man tired and was lowered carefully, lovingly, to the street again.

She sniffed. "That was great."

"Yeah," Mickey agreed. His own voice was just a little unsteady.

Anne turned, used her fingertips to wipe away what were definitely not tears from his eyes. "You done good, boy," she whispered.

Mickey shook his head. "I didn’t do this."

"You helped."

"So did you."

"Me?" she asked, genuinely surprised. "I’ve never even been to Berlin before."

Mickey shook his head. "It doesn’t matter. The pictures you take, they make people see …" He faltered, searching for the right words. "They make people see how alike we are. The way you see things … when you’re done, that won’t just be an old man in Berlin. He’ll be everybody’s grandfather." He shook his head again, impatiently. "I’m sorry, I don’t have the words for this. But what you do – it’s important. It’s really important."

She leaned against him, out of words herself. "Thank you. I didn’t know you felt like that."

"Well, I do."

"But what you do," Anne argued, "it’s just as important. It did make this all happen."

"Maybe," Mickey conceded. "But half of what I do …" He hesitated. "Half the time, I think what I’m doing just makes things worse."

"But for a greater good."

"I used to think that. Now I’m not so sure."

Anne studied him for a moment. He’d never talked about his job with her, not like this, not about how he felt about it. He could tell she didn’t know quite what to make of it. "Then why don’t you quit?"

Kostmayer sighed. "For the other half, I guess."

She nodded seriously. "The things you do for Robert. They help you keep … even."

"Yes," he breathed, relieved. "I wasn’t sure you’d understand that."

"I would have if you’d ever told me."

Mickey looked away. "I’m trying, Anne."

"I know you are," she answered, touching his face again. "You’re doing so good."

The crowd shifted, moving them north again. Anne checked her camera, frowned, rewound and started patting her pockets. She got her arm tangled in the chain; Mickey moved quickly to unwind her.

"This is kinda silly," Anne said as she reloaded. "The chain. It’s sweet, it really is, but it’s not necessary."

"Take it off, if it’s in your way," Mickey answered quietly.

She looked up at him. "You don’t want me to."

He shrugged, expressionless. "It keeps me from losing you in the crowd."

"You won’t lose me."

"I already did once," he said solemnly.

Anne shook her head. "I would have taken you back. I always do."

"Not this time. This time you were done. And I don’t blame you."

"Are you saying I was right?" Anne asked, fumbling for an empty pocket for the exposed film.

"I might be," Mickey agreed. He took the film from her and tucked it into a back pocket on her vest.

"Then, ah, you’d be admitting that Lily was right, too."

Kostmayer froze up. "Leave Romanov out of this," he warned.

"She was trying to help us, Mickey."

"Leave it," he snarled. "I will settle things with her later."

"I won’t let you hurt her, Mickey."

His eyes narrowed to furious slits. "You think you can stop me?"

Anne took a half-step back. "Mickey, stop it."

He could see her fear, and he hated it. But his rage at Lily was white-hot again, and he couldn’t hide it. "It’s between me and Romanov," he warned darkly. "You stay out of it."

"I can’t, Mickey," Anne protested, defiant through her fear. "What she did, she did for both of us."

I am going to kill her, Mickey thought fiercely. But if he said that aloud to Anne – if she ever found out – and then there was Control, coming after him, which hadn’t mattered, when Anne was gone –

Damn it.

"Promise me you won’t hurt her," she demanded.

"Fine," Mickey snapped. "I’ll make sure I kill her quick and painless."

Anne stared at him. Then she jerked away, forgetting about the chain until it snapped taut and spun her back around. "You’re crazy!" she shouted. "She’s your friend, she did everything she could to help you, and you want to kill her for it?"

The crowd was turning towards the commotion. "Anne, stop it," Mickey ordered, low and dangerous.

"Stop it? I’m not going to stop it! You just said you …"

"Anne, shut up!"

She froze for one instant, swallowed, blinked back tears. Then she fumbled frantically for the cuff key.

Mickey knew at once what she was looking for. He also knew, with great certainty, that if she got the cuffs off, she was gone. Really gone. "Annie, don’t."

She found the key. "We’ve got nothing to talk about."

Anne reached for the cuff. Mickey’s hand closed over hers. "Anne, stop."

"Let go. Get away from me!"

"Anne, please!"

For the second time in less than an hour, she swung her camera at him. He caught her other wrist, stopping her, and then he twisted her around so that her back was to him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and his arms around her. "Annie, just stop," he said directly in her ear. "Just stop."

She struggled, and brought her foot down as hard as she could on his instep. "Let me go!"

"There is a problem?" a voice in the crowd said.

"Go away!" Anne shouted. "Damn it, Mickey, let me go." She gave up escaping his arms and turned her efforts back to unlocking the cuff.

"Annie, please," he said desperately, "I love you."

She shuddered, stopped struggling. "And I know you love me," he continued.

"I don’t even know you!" she yelled.

Mickey sighed. "Okay," he said. "Okay." Slowly, he released his grip. "Then go."

Anne turned to face him. "I don’t want to go. I want you to say you won’t hurt her."

"You don’t understand."

"I understand just fine. I understand that you’re mad at her because she got the drop on you. She embarrassed you, is that it? She faced you? And you’re so mad at her you’re willing to let me go to get at her. That’s it, isn’t it?"

Mickey growled. "Yeah. That’s it."

"And you couldn’t find her in this crowd. If you could, you’d be off killing her instead of trying to fix things with me. Isn’t that right?"

"Absolutely," he agreed darkly.

Anne unlocked the cuff from her wrist and handed the key to him. "Good bye, Mickey."

He watched her, numb, dumbfounded, as she moved away into the crowd. Michael Kostmayer was a man who lived by his wits, by his ability to make a quick decision, and suddenly he was rooted, unable to move, to think. To decide.

It was such an easy decision. Let Lily Romanov live, let his rage go, or give up the woman he loved more than his own life.

Insane that he should even have to think about it.

But he was so furious still.

But he loved Anne Keller.

Love, or rage.

He took one deep breath, and went after her.

Mickey moved up behind her again, but didn’t grab her this time. Instead, he leaned very close and said, "All right. I’ll let her live."

Anne spun around and snapped the cuff back on his wrist. "Damn, but you’re a pain in the ass to live with."

Mickey grinned uncertainly, still off-balance. "Yeah. I know."

***


	7. Chapter 7

_Well, the government bugged the men's room in the local disco lounge_   
_And all she wants to do is dance, dance_   
_To keep the boys from sellin' all the weapons they could scrounge_   
_And all she wants to do is dance_   
_But that don't keep the boys from makin' a buck or two_   
_And all she wants to do is dance, dance_   
_They still can sell the army all the drugs that they can do_

 

"We're gonna die," Jimmy said grimly.

Stock shot him a look, but he wasn't entirely sure his companion was wrong. The three young black men they faced were grim and determined, and any one of them outmassed the two agents combined by a factor of at least two. From the look of them, they also outgunned the agents by at least as much.

"You Lily's friend?" the tallest of the black men asked.

"Yes," Stock answered. "I'm, uh, Jacob, this is Jimmy." It seemed wiser not to use last names. In his mind, he designated the three men Tall, Round, and In-Between.

"Where's Lily?"

"She's been called away. She'll be back for the party, though."

The three young men exchanged looks warily. "You look like a cop," In-Between said.

"We aren't cops," Jimmy assured them. "We're just looking for a place to have a party. We have cash."

The tall one said, "You don't look like a cop. He does, but you don't."

"We aren't cops," Jimmy said again.

"Lily said you could help us," Stock prompted.

Another look. The young men came to some silent agreement. "Come on inside," Tall said.

Jimmy and Stock shared a look of their own. Jimmy patted the back of his jacket significantly. They followed the young men into the warehouse.

The ground floor was empty and bare, concrete and dust. "Parking," Round said. "There's a door in back. Nobody can see you from the street that way."

"Good, good," Stock answered. That would make Control happy, anyhow.

They continued to a freight elevator at the back wall. The five of them were not very crowded on the brief ride to the second floor. "You understand," Tall said, "it's not that we don't want to help. But this club does not appear on the official records of the City of New York."

"You don't have a liquor license," Jimmy translated. "We don't care."

"No license, no inspections, no limit on our hours. This is a private club, not an open bar. It makes the paperwork easier. You understand."

"We understand," Stock assured him. "We're not into any kind of law enforcement. We just want to throw a party."

The elevator opened onto a small lobby. Beyond, double doors opened onto the main club.

"Welcome to The Velvet Elvis, gentlemen," In-Between man said, ushering them into the club.

The agents considered the club for a long moment. "This'll work," Jimmy pronounced, with more than his usual enthusiasm.

"Oh, yeah," Stock answered. "This'll be great." He considered the bar, the dance floor. The lights, the speakers, the mural behind the bar – well, at least he knew where the club got its name and holy cow, did anyone really think Elvis had been that well-endowed? There was everything they needed here, except food, and that was Sterno's problem. "It'll be great," he repeated.

"We close at midnight tonight," Round told them. "The cleaning crew will be done by five a.m. and you can have the keys then. We re-open at noon on Monday."

Jimmy shook his head. "If you're not on the books, why close on Sundays?"

The three men turned as one to look at him. "Sunday is the Lord's day," the tallest one said. "Wouldn’t be right to sell liquor on the Lord's day."

"Oh."

Round snickered. "Besides, his mama would kick his ass."

"Oh."

Stock and Jimmy shared another look. There were details to work out, money, bartenders, and so on. But they had a place to party.

***

_I, I can remember_   
_(can remember)_   
_Standing by the wall_   
_(by the wall)_   
_And the guns shot above our heads_   
_(above our heads)_   
_And we kissed as though nothing could fall_

 

They walked in silence for a long while. Anne took pictures of the Wall dancers, and the Wall woodpeckers, the people with hammers and mallets and other creative tools of destruction. She found a baby-faced East German soldier peeking through a new hole in the Wall and took a dozen pictures of his grinning face. She caught some of the graffito on the flat places, found shred of ancient torn cloth on barbed wire. Mickey moved with her, anticipating what she needed, more film, a different camera, a different lens. His hands moved freely over her vest, keeping hers free for the camera. But for a long time they found no words.

Lily had said they needed to talk, he thought bitterly, and now because of her they had nothing to say to each other.

But then – what had she said? Something about a deal-breaker. "Do you want to have children?" Mickey asked abruptly.

"What?"

"Do you want to have children?" he repeated. "If we were married, would you want to have children?"

Anne lowered her camera and looked at him. "Honestly?"

"Yeah, that would help."

"No."

"No?"

She shrugged. "If Gregg had lived … it would have been different. I mean, if we’d had him …" She gestured around. "But I wouldn’t be here, then. Neither would you, probably."

Mickey nodded slowly. If their child had survived, if he hadn’t been stillborn, all those years ago … he shook his head. Too many roads had ended with the child’s unstarted life. To think about them now was madness. "I just always assumed … I mean, you come from such a big family and all."

"I think that’s the problem," Anne answered. "From the time I was out of diapers, practically, I was changing somebody else’s. I mean, I love my brothers and sisters, I do, but … when you and Nick were out playing kick the can, I was feeding babies. Remember?"

He considered. He hadn’t ever thought about it that way. "But it would be different with your own kids, wouldn’t it?"

"Maybe," she agreed. "And sometimes I think about it … but mostly … I’m scared I’d turn into my mother."

"Your mother and her frightening hips."

Anne laughed. "You see what I mean." She slipped her hand into his and they moved further along the Wall. "Do you? Want kids?"

"I don’t know," he admitted. "I guess not. I mean, I don’t feel very strongly about it either way. If you wanted them I’d go along with it, but … apathy means no, right?"

"Right."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I can’t believe I didn’t know that about you."

"You never asked."

"I know."

They walked a little further. The crowd had thinned here to normal street traffic, and even that was fading as the light left. Berlin had been celebrating for more than a day; it was finally going to bed.

"I like this," Mickey said, quiet and surprised.

"Walking and talking?" Anne asked. "We could do it more often, you know."

"Yeah." He jingled the chain between them. "I might have to keep this."

"We don’t need that." She squeezed his hand warmly. "We have these."

He stopped, and she turned, and they kissed.

"Not so hard, is it?" Anne coaxed.

Mickey smirked. "It’s a lot easier when you aren’t yelling at me."

"It’s a lot easier when you stick around, too." She touched his face gently, almost by way of apology. "How come I can’t get a decent argument out of you?"

"I don’t see any point in arguing." He was already stiffening up. "I mean, you yell, I yell, nothing gets accomplished."

"But nothing gets accomplished when you just leave, either."

"Maybe. But at least we don’t break up."

Anne frowned. "You won’t fight with me because you’re afraid we’ll break up if you do?"

"Well … yeah."

"We damn near broke up because you didn’t."

Mickey’s shoulders inched up. "Can we not talk about this right now?"

She sighed. "I’m not mad, Mickey. And I’m not going to yell, I promise. But I think we really need to talk about this."

He drew a long, deep breath, and started walking, still holding her hand. "I just … I just don’t see why we need to fight. I just don’t."

"All couples fight."

"No, they don’t."

"Of course they do."

"No," Mickey repeated with certainty. "They don’t."

Anne considered, then tried a different strategy. "Didn’t your parents ever fight?"

"No."

"They must have."

"Nope."

"Maybe when you weren’t around."

"Anne. My parents never fought."

"Never?"

"Never."

"I can’t believe that. All couples fight."

"They didn’t."

"Never?" she asked again.

"Never," Mickey insisted. "Just that once."

Anne heard the catch in his voice. "Mickey?" she asked gently.

He looked pointedly in the other direction. "I don’t want to talk about this," he said again, and this time his voice actually cracked.

"Mickey." Anne stopped him with a gentle pressure, turned him towards her and put her hands lightly on the sides of his face. "Mickey, what happened?"

He still wouldn’t meet her eyes. "They had a fight, okay? A big blow-out argument like we’re always on the verge of having. And then my dad left."

"And then what?"

"And then nothing." He jerked his head away from her, turned so that his shoulder was towards her. "He never came back."

"Oh, Jesus … oh, Mickey!" Anne went around in front of him, and though he tried to turn away again, she caught him, this time with her arms, wrapped them around him and held him tightly. He resisted, stiffening against her. "Oh, Mickey," she murmured, "oh, love, I’m sorry, I didn’t know."

Slowly, the stiffness left him and he wrapped his arms around her as well. He buried his face in her shoulder and held her tighter still. One of them, or both of them, trembled. She kept murmuring reassurances, apologies, and he shook his head without looking up. "How could you know, Annie? I never told you."

"You should have told me, I never would have … oh, Mickey, I’m so sorry. If I’d known … my parents fought all the time, I never thought about … oh, Mickey, I’m sorry."

"Okay, stop," he muttered. He untangled himself, but gently, from her embrace. "It was a long time ago, it shouldn’t matter any more, it’s just … it’s just …"

"That every time we argue you think I’m going to leave you. Because that’s what you learned."

Mickey shook his head. "I should know better."

"I should, too. I wish you’d just said something."

There was a long silence. Mickey looked around them. It was nearly full dark, and the streets were almost deserted here. There were houses between them and the Wall now. He’d hidden in a chicken coop once that used the Wall as the back of the pen. Close by, in fact. The place with the weird graffiti.

"Come here," he said, moving again. "I want to show you something."

She followed, willing but concerned as they cut behind people’s houses.

"Your parents argued all the time?" he asked. "I didn’t know that."

"All the time," Anne answered, chuckling. "Screaming, yelling, about everything. But it never meant anything, they still loved each other. It was just how they communicated."

He nodded thoughtfully. "So that’s how you thought couples should be."

"Yeah, I guess I did. And all the time that was exactly the wrong way to be with you … I’m sorry, Mickey."

"My fault, too. I didn’t even realize that was why I kept leaving." He sighed. "Damn it."

"What?"

He twisted his mouth. "I hate it when Romanov’s right."

"You don’t have to tell her.’

"No. I don’t think I will." He stopped just beside the Wall and pointed. "Read this."

Anne squinted in the shadows. Mickey produced a pen light and pointed it to a tiny spot. There were shallow scratches there, old words almost too faint to be read. "My ear?" Anne read curiously. "Is that what it says?"

"Uh-huh. 'My ear, my ear, where the hell is my ear'."

"What’s it mean?"

Mickey shrugged. "I have no idea. I found it a long time ago, when I was hiding out here." He hesitated, then went on. "The spotlights have sweet spots. Dead places, places they don’t reach. So if you come off the Wall, or through it, you can just stay here, wait until they quit looking."

"But I thought once you got to the West you were safe."

He gestured towards the top of the Wall. "High-powered rifles, they’re not great respecters of boundaries."

She followed his gesture, gazed at the Wall for a moment. Then she looked back at him. He could see her putting it together. Him crouching here – right here – in this small sweet shadow, while above men with guns waited for a glimpse to shoot at. Men right there, trying their damndest to kill him … she shuddered, and he touched her arm. "Annie, I’m right here."

Her eyes filled with tears anyhow. "You were … you could have … how often have you … ah, shit. I was happier when I didn’t know so much about your job."

"Yeah."

She framed up the scratching on the Wall and took a couple flash shots. "I’m tired," she announced.

"We can head back," Mickey answered. "There’s not going to be much more to see tonight."

"In a minute." Anne leaned her shoulder against the Wall, resting. Mickey joined her, took her hand again. "What are we going to do, Mickey?" she asked softly.

"About us?"

"Uh-huh."

"We’re doing it," he answered. "We’re going to talk it out. Everything we need to talk about, we’ll talk about. That’s all."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Well, it ought to be a little easier now, anyhow."

"Now that I’ll quit yelling at you."

He shook his head. "It’s okay if you yell at me. As long as I know you’re not leaving me."

"You think … maybe you could yell back sometimes?"

"That’s a stretch. But I can try, if it’s important to you."

"It is."

"Why?"

She considered, biting her lower lip. "My parents had these big screaming fights, and then they’d go upstairs and make up. They weren’t quiet about that, either."

"You’re kidding."

"Mickey, until I was about six years old, I thought people made babies by screaming at each other."

Mickey laughed. "Oh. So you’re trying to pick fights with me to spice up our love life?"

"No, but …" Anne stopped and thought about it. "You know, maybe that is part of it."

"We’re quite a pair, you know that." Mickey took a deep breath. "I love you, Anne."

"I love you, too."

He looked around. The sweet spot. No surveillance here, no spotlights, even if they’d been running tonight. The chicken coop blocked them from the street, mostly. The houses were dark and quiet. The concrete of the Wall was cold on his back, and colder still through his jeans. Anne’s hand in his felt like an ember. "We could try it," he ventured softly.

"The fighting or the making up?"

"Yeah." He turned and put one hand behind her neck, drew her face to his and kissed her long and hard and deep. "Yeah."

Her body came tight against his – and the cameras and film and lenses in her vest pockets jabbed at both of them. "Wait," Anne murmured against his mouth. She got her hand between them, unzipped the vest and pushed it open. Less hindered, she drew tight against him again, her arms twined around his head as far as the chain would allow, and the kiss continued.

The explosion happened almost directly over their heads. Mickey lifted his mouth and moved their bodies in one instinctive motion, pushing Anne roughly against the Wall and covering her with his own body even before he looked up to the source of the blinding white light.

The firework blossom faded, the embers hissing down to the cold earth below.

"Shit," Kostmayer breathed. Other fireworks went off all along the wall. He moved off Anne’s body enough to stop crushing her. "I hate fireworks. You okay?"

"Uh-huh," she said faintly.

Mickey leaned back and studied her. Her eyes were cloudy, but she wasn’t frightened, wasn’t hurt. It was some other emotion entirely. His body recognized it before his mind did. It made his mouth go dry, his knees go soft. "You, uh, want to head back to the safe house?"

"No," Anne answered. She pulled his close again and kissed him, deeper than before, harder.

"Anne," Mickey said desperately, "Anne, please." This was crazy, he thought. His jeans were suddenly way too tight. It was cold, the fireworks kept exploding over their heads, they were literally in the shadow of the Berlin Wall, it was the middle of the night, and if she kissed him like that one more time …

She did. She moved so that her foot was between his, and then her knee, and then her thigh was tight against his, her whole body, and he could feel the heat through their clothes, way too many clothes between them, his reindeer sweater that was no less itchy from the outside than the inside, his leather jacket too cold, too slick, he fumbled to get that zipper open, too, and that was better, they were closer, still not close enough, they were never going to be close enough …

This was insane. "Anne," he said, as firmly as he could, "stop it. We can’t do this."

She nibbled at his left ear, and her hands found their way under his shirt, ran up his chest. Her hands were warm, but the trailing handcuff chain was icy; the combination was intolerable. "Why?" she purred.

"We … you … damn it, Annie …" Her left hand had found the most sensitive spot on his chest. The chain dragged frozen across his taut stomach. And her right hand was … was … "Annie," he groaned, half protest, half resignation.

"The Wall won’t be here in a month," she protested. "We’ll never get another chance."

"But … but …" Mickey insisted. His mouth continued to protest even as hers closed over his, but his body had already agreed with her logic … if that’s what it was. Maybe it was just a lack of control … oh, hell, if Control ever found out about this … too many people, too many cameras, too much risk, out here in the middle of everything …his hands were all over her, now, too, and the cold didn’t matter, he didn’t even feel it, neither did she, only the heat, mouths and hands and skin and heat …

… too many clothes, too many clothes in the way, zippers and buttons and shirts and what he wanted was his skin against hers, what he wanted was … was …

Another explosion overhead, and he moved, backed her against the wall again … the Wall, he corrected … still way too many clothes, but the important ones out of the way and nothing else mattered, he moved and they were together, joined in heat, his body held hers tight against the Wall, her arms around his neck, her leg came up around him and they were together, so close, so tight, so impossibly hot where they met …

It couldn’t last, and it didn’t, but it ended as swiftly and as spectacularly as the airbursts that continued over their heads. Mickey fought for air and for balance as Anne’s body slumped against him. He got his feet a little further apart, braced himself and just held her for a moment. She was trembling. Or maybe it was him. After another moment, they both started to feel the cold.

Anne put her feet down and steadied herself. "Um."

"Uh-huh," Mickey answered. They both adjusted their clothes, standing very close still, covering each other until they were decent. They got tangled in the chain of the handcuffs and had to stop. Anne started to giggle. Mickey grumbled, then started laughing himself. They got untangled, eventually. Zipped each other’s coats. Anne patted her pockets, found her camera. Assembled, respectably holding hands, and without another word, they stepped back into the light.

They had walked perhaps fifty yards before Mickey said, rather plaintively, "Now can we go back to the safe house?"

Anne laughed. "That depends. Will Ginger be there?"

"I hope not."

"After this, I thought you might be up for two redheads."

"You are such a brat."

"I know. And you’re so very indulgent."

He grunted. "If they weren’t tearing this Wall down …"

"You’d have done it anyhow."

Mickey glanced sidelong at her, a small grin playing at his mouth. "Yeah, I would. With you, I would."

"You say the sweetest things."

They walked a little further. "Maybe your parents had something," Mickey finally ventured. "Maybe there’s something to this fighting after all."

"Told you so." Anne bumped against his shoulder as they walked. "We should do it more often."

"Yeah."

"But you were right, too," she admitted. "Maybe a little more talking, a little less yelling."

"Uh-huh."

"You’re not talking," Anne pointed out.

Mickey cleared his throat. "Sorry. I was just wondering … only we’re doing so well, I don’t want to bring it up again …"

"Getting married?"

"Yes."

"I’d like to marry you."

They walked a little further. "But?" Mickey asked.

"But what?"

"You’d like to marry me, but."

"No but. I’d like to marry you. If the offer still stands."

"Oh." They walked; Mickey’s face was perfectly expressionless. "It’s the handcuffs, isn’t it?" he finally ventured.

"Well … they helped."

"You’re just a little kinky, aren’t you?"

"A little. And you like it, just a little, don’t you?"

"A little."

"So?"

"So what?"

"So do you still want to marry me? Kinks and all?"

Mickey shrugged. "Let me think about it."

"Oh, and you said I was a brat." Anne stopped in her tracks, grabbed his face, and kissed him again. "Don’t make me throw you up against that Wall again, buddy."

He stood very still and considered her for a long moment. "Okay."

"Okay."

"Okay, let’s get married."

Anne grinned. "Okay."

Mickey sighed. "Now can we go back to the safe house?"

They did. They found a warm room with a door that locked securely, they took off the handcuffs and many other things, and sometime before the dawn, he finally remembered to put his mother’s engagement ring on her finger.

***


	8. Chapter 8

_The radio is blastin', someone's knockin' at the door_   
_I'm lookin' at my girlfriend - she's passed out on the floor_   
_I seen so many things I ain't never seen before_   
_Don't know what it is - I don't wanna see no more_   
_Mama told me not to come …_

 

Robert stopped the Jaguar at the end of the long gravel drive and considered the building dubiously. "This can’t be the right place."

Beside him, Pete O’Phelan consulted the address she’d scrawled on a carry-out form at the restaurant. "It’s what I’ve got, too," she answered uncertainly.

At the end of the drive, a three-story warehouse stood dark. Every window was boarded over. A single light shown yellow over the empty concrete lot beside the building. If there was a party here, it was starting late.

McCall suspected he had been sent on a great snipe hunt.

"They said to go around back," Pete offered.

Robert grunted, but he pointed the sleek car down the dusty drive. At the back corner he turned and was greeted by two more overhead lights, a wide garage door, tightly closed, and three men in dark clothes. Of its own accord, his hand strayed to his gun even before he stopped the car.

The hand returned to the wheel as Jacob Stock came to the side of the car. Robert rolled down the window. "Hey, McCall, glad you could make it. Hi, Pete."

"Are we early?" she asked.

"Early? No, lots of people here." He frowned, puzzled, then brightened. "Parking inside," he explained. "Take the service elevator up."

McCall nodded grimly. "Just another Control special."

Stock laughed. "You’ll see, McCall. Go on in." He stood back and gestured; the garage door opened with mechanical smoothness, silent.

The parking area, the entire ground floor of the building, was a third full of cars. As soon as he opened the door, Robert could hear the pounding bass line of the music playing above them. Warily, he rounded the Jag and offered his hand to help Pete out.

She eyed the ceiling above them as well. "Maybe we could just put in an appearance."

"A brief appearance," Robert agreed. "You just say the word."

They walked to the elevator, which appeared as disreputable as the rest of the building, but ran with precision quiet. It opened onto a small lobby, where the music was louder than below but not as loud as inside. On the wall, a vast graffiti tag read, "Welcome to the Velvet Elvis."

"The … Velvet Elvis?" Pete asked carefully.

"I’m not sure I want to know," McCall answered. He walked to the push-through double doors to the main floor. There, a hand-written sign read, ‘One night only, this area officially designated THE FIELD.’

Robert actually groaned.

"I don’t get it," Pete said. "The field? What field?"

"The proverbial field," McCall answered. "As in, ‘what happens in the field, stays in the field.’"

"Oh," his companion said, understanding completely, "it’s going to be one of those parties."

Grasping her arm firmly, Robert pushed the door open and resolutely entered the fray

***

_When I get lonely and I'm sure I've had enough,_   
_She sends comfort coming in from above._   
_Don't need no letters at all._   
_We got a thing that's called radar love_

 

Control, being Control, found the back entrance, a rusty set of stairs, and made his entrance nearly unnoticed. He lingered in shadow, taking stock. Who was here, and in what configurations. Where the exits were, and where one could shelter from gunfire. Where the bar was, and the bathrooms. It took him less than a minute, his long-honed instincts doing most of the work, bringing only the exceptional details to his conscious attention.

Item of note: At the small table nearest the door were five men with uniformly short hair, painfully good posture, and powerful self-assurance. They were not Control's, but he fleetingly wished they were. None of their beverages appeared to be alcoholic, and they were not mingling, not chatting up the available women. Whoever they were, they were there with a purpose. They were working.

Item of note: The bar had taken its name from the mural which hung behind the bar. It was, of course, a painting of Elvis on black velvet. From the quality of the painting, it might well have been a paint-by number – of mammoth proportions. It was made of four panels, each ten feet tall, and the whole portrait was perhaps forty feet long. The King was lying on his side, his head propped up on one hand, a glass of champagne in the other. He was nude.

It was not the young, fit Elvis.

A significant portion of his anatomy was highly improbable.

Item of note: There were two men working the bar, and neither of them belonged to Control, either. They were running their legs off. Three tip jars were half-full, but otherwise no cash changed hands. Open bar. Control felt his wallet groan.

Item of note: They had, as threatened, put Sterno in charge of the food. Three long tables near the wall away from the bar literally bowed under the weight of the buffet. He'd been to every carry-out joint in the city. Control's wallet gave up groaning and began to weep quietly.

There were small tables between the bar and the buffet, four chairs each, and some had already been put together. Beyond the bar, closer to where Control had come in, was a large dance floor, polished wood but with the annoying inset disco lights. Huge speakers hung from the ceiling on all four corners of the floor, blasting the dancers with sound.

Item of note: Of the two-hundred plus agents and supporters already present, perhaps six had any business trying to dance to rock music. The rest were enthusiastic but hopeless.

Item of note: Behind the buffet was a series of doors. They had doubtless been offices when this factory was serving its original purpose. Now they seemed to be private rooms for party-goers. Lovely. It would be instructive, Control mused, to see who went into the rooms with whom. Instructive, and quite possibly disturbing.

Item of note: At the rear of the club, where Control had come in, there were several larger tables which seated up to eight people. They were behind the speakers, where it was somewhat quieter, and they afforded a clear view of the entire room. My spot, the spymaster decided at once. For as long as I have to stay.

Item of note: The only person who had noted his arrival was the most beautiful woman in the room.

Lily Romanov stood at the bar, surrounded by young agents, and although she was listening to them, she frequently glanced in his direction. She could not possibly see him in the shadows, but there was no question in his mind that she knew he was there, and that he was watching her.

She wore a little black dress, the sort of dress that many women owned and few should actually wear, sleeveless, v-cut in the front and back just a little too far, just half an inch too short, half a size too tight. Stiletto heels on strappy sandals, and she should not have been able to walk, much less dance. Yet she did both with ease. Lily lived in her blue jeans, and he liked her that way. But cleaned up and dressed up, she was stunning.

Control reached instinctively to straighten his tie. He paused, with a grimacing smile, remembering that he didn't have one. He had gone as casual as he ever intended to with this particular crowd: black pants, black turtleneck, charcoal gray sport coat to cover the gun that he certainly was not attending without. He felt self-consciously underdressed, despite the fact that many of the others were wearing jeans. He was, after all, Control.

He ran his hand through his hair – which was longer than it had been in years; the woman was playing havoc with his personal grooming standards – and stepped into the light.

***

_You might've heard I run with a dangerous crowd._   
_We ain't too pretty. We ain't too proud._   
_We might be laughing a bit too loud,_   
_But that never hurt no one._

 

Jacob Stock climbed onto the bar and gestured for quiet. He didn’t, of course, get it. He turned around and spoke to the bartender, who turned off the tape deck. The background silence was a little disturbing, but people kept right on talking. Finally, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled at a volume that made dogs shudder twenty blocks in every direction.

The warehouse got quiet.

"Hi," he said, suddenly nervous. "Uh, before we get really started here, there’s a couple rules and stuff I have to go over." There were general groans from the gathering. "Yeah, yeah, I’ll be quick. The first thing is, uh, we have to thank Control," he gestured towards the spymaster at the back of the room, "for authorizing this party and more importantly, for signing off on our expense reports."

From the floor, Lily tugged at his pants leg. Stock bent and conferred with her, then straightened and cleared his throat again. "Uh, well, I hear he hasn’t signed off on them yet. So if you love us, you’ll be nice to him, okay? Otherwise I’m going to need a second job to pay for this bash."

The crowd giggled. Control nodded sternly.

"Anyhow," Stock went on, "when he agreed to this party, Control had three conditions. One, that he didn’t have to make any speeches." There was applause, and Jacob shook his head. "You’re killing us here, you know that, don’t you? Two, that it had to be somewhere the KGB wouldn’t be taking all our pictures." He gestured around the warehouse. "So here we are. And three, that nobody gets stupid and dead. So, the bar is open, drink all you want …" again he had to wait until the applause died down, "but there by the door, those large men? They are with the, uh, special unit of the Army Rangers which does not officially exist, and they’re here to be our designated drivers. If you try to leave and they think you’re drunk, they will take your keys and drive you home. And fair warning, if they think you’re drunk, they’re right. You can ride home in the back seat or they can fold you up in the trunk, but you’re not driving."

There were scattered laughs, but the crowd understood.

"Uh, okay," he continued, consulting his notes. "So the bar is free, but feel free to tip your bartenders, and don’t be ordering any girlie blender drinks, please. And Sterno was in charge of food, so there’s lots of it." He gestured to the tables at the far side of the club. "Eat all you want. Really. He's outside watching cars right now, but feel free to tell him what you think. Music – some of you know Robert McCall’s son Scott, he made the tapes for us from all your suggestions at the office – well, most of your suggestions. And we have another tape of songs used to torture various terrorists throughout the world. If anyone tries to make a speech, we will not hesitate to use it." He gestured to the bartender again, and the first strains of 'Muskrat Love' wafted over the floor. The crowd groaned, and Stock relented, gestured for it to stop before the words could start.

"What else?" Lily tugged his pants again, and again he leaned down to consult with her. "Oh, right. This place is the Velvet Elvis, for obvious reasons, and it is open after hours every night except Sunday. The owners are friends, sorta, so feel free to give them your business any time you're, um, out after hours. And thanks to Lily for setting this up for us." Another brief consult. "And if you're going to use the private rooms, for God's sake lock the doors, okay? Because, frankly, we don't want to know the details."

"Other than that, have a good time, and we'll see you all at work tomorrow."

There was a smattering of laughter; Jacob climbed down, and the music resumed.

***

_Where have all good men gone_   
_And where are all the gods?_   
_Where's the street-wise Hercules_   
_To fight the rising odds?_

 

"Robert!"

McCall grinned. "Charlie McGuinn. I might have guessed you'd be here first." He embraced his old friend lightly.

"Anywhere with an open bar, of course I'm here first. How've you been? How's the, what do we call it, the altruism business?"

"It goes as well as can be expected," Robert allowed. "There seems to be no shortage of bad men in the world, I'm afraid."

"You didn't think there would be," Charlie told him. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink. Well, I won't buy it, of course, but I'll pretend to tip for you."

Robert turned to check on Pete, but she was already off with a number of her old colleagues. Nodding, he followed Charlie to the bar. "I didn't expect so many of the old crowd," he commented, looking around.

"Open bar, remember?" Charlie prompted. "And why shouldn't we be here? We won the war. And this is the only celebration we'll get for it, probably. Scotch, two, top shelf," he ordered.

The drinks arrived. Robert accepted his, and they shared a wordless toast. "Won the war?" he mused. "Or just this incarnation of it?"

Charlie sighed. "You're right, of course. But for tonight, we're all going to pretend we won the whole war."

"A little group self-delusion?" Robert mused, not unkindly.

"And here's how," McGuinn agreed, raising his drink.

"Ah, good," Lily Romanov said as she joined them, "grown men at last. I'm so glad you're here. The little boys are boring me senseless."

"Hello, darling," Charlie said, kissing her cheek.

"I believe she was talking to me," Robert countered, kissing her other cheek.

"Both of you, actually," she said. "How've you been?"

"Busy," Charlie told her. "And about to be busier, I imagine."

Lily shook her head. "Tonight there is only good news and peace in the world."

"What, you've cut all the phone lines?"

"And taken the batteries from all the radios," she answered. She turned to Robert. "I have something for you. For Scott, actually – are you going to see him this week?"

"I usually do," he said. He watched with interest as she reached over the bar, retrieved a rather well-stuffed envelope, and handed it to him. "What's this for?" he asked suspiciously.

"For the music," she answered. "He made our soundtrack for us, on no notice."

"He won't accept this."

"I know. That's why I'm giving it to you." To Robert's scowl, she went on, "It's not like it's my money, it's …" she gestured towards the back of the room, where Control was holding court, "… well, the Company's. And it's half of what we would have had to pay some studio guy to make it for us, I know he stayed up all night finding this stuff, and it's not like he can't use the money."

There was, Robert allowed, no arguing that point. She was probably right, too, that Scott would accept the money from him. Still, "I don't know."

"Tell him if he won't take it, I'll just break into his apartment and hide it in his underwear drawer," Lily threatened. "And I will look through them while I'm there."

Robert laughed and tucked the envelope away. "I will tell him."

"Thank you."

From the elevator, Sterno rather stridently called, "Romanov! Hey, Romanov!"

"Gotta go," Lily said brightly. "Have another drink."

From where they stood, both senior agents could hear Sterno's next words. "Hey, Romanov, there's a squad of Marines outside looking for you."

"Uh-oh," Charlie said quietly.

But Lily practically bounced towards the elevator. "Excellent!" she called.

***

_Now the man in the back_   
_Is ready to crack as he raises his hands to the sky_   
_And the girl in the corner is everyone's mourner_   
_She could kill you with a wink of her eye_

 

The ripple of rumor carried swiftly to Control's ears and he excused himself, made his way uneasily towards the front of the club, wondering if he would need to go downstairs and rescue his lover from a bunch of jarheads. What in the world had she gotten herself into this time?

Before he could reach the elevator, Lily returned. As advertised, she was trailed by a squad of six Marines in BDU's. The men carried two body bags. At Lily's instruction, they placed the bags on two hastily-cleared tables. Neither bag looked quite long enough for an adult body, but both were obviously heavy enough. A chill fell over the room.

Control moved closer.

Romanov glanced around, smiled into the silence. "You people are so literal. Lighten up." She spoke more quietly to the men, directing them invitingly to the food and the drinks. Predictably, they headed for the food first, except for the squad leader, who lingered near the woman.

Control growled very quietly. The way the man acted with her, his posture, his voice, his physical proximity: He thought he was taking her home.

She wasn't doing anything to discourage him.

"Come, come children, gather 'round and see what I brought you," Lily called. A percentage of the crowd gathered around the table. Lily unzipped the smaller body bag. It contained fist sized-rocks – no, concrete, splattered here and there with bits of paint. There were also half a dozen small hammers. "Arts and crafts time. Make your own souvenirs. Have a piece of the Wall in your own home."

"All right!" Roelen said. "I didn't think you'd pull it off." Eager hands were already reaching to break up the rocks.

Control stood right behind her, trying not to glower too visibly at the Marine who still lingered.

Lily gestured. "Getting it was easy. Getting it home was the tricky part."

"What's in there?" Stock asked, pointing towards the larger bag.

The woman grinned, glanced back over her shoulder at Control. "This is going to the Farm, I think." She looked around for Robert, gestured him closer. Then she zipped back the top.

Inside the bag was a single flat piece of concrete, three feet square, coarsely hacked out of the larger Wall. Its graffiti was intact. The line, the nose, the curved head, the eyes, in faded blue paint. Below, in red, also faded, the words: Kilroy Was Here.

Control began to chuckle softly. He knew this piece of the Wall well. Very well indeed. It had been many years ago, when he and Robert were young agents. He'd told Lily about this particular incident on what he had come to call the Night of the Great Betrayal – what she called the Night of the Great Revelation. He would never have thought she could retrieve it for him.

He touched the small of her back, very lightly, very briefly.

The gathered agents laughed their appreciation. "I had to have it," Lily said. She looked to Robert. "Your artwork, I presume?"

He raised one eyebrow. "Why mine?" She pointed one slender finger to the edge of the art, where he had scribbled his initials in wet paint with his fingertip. McCall grinned, nodding. "Very observant, my dear."

Lily nodded. "And bonus points for whoever can identify this rather distinctive handwriting."

There was a pause, and then almost as one the agents got it. They'd all had notes from him. Lily looked back at Control again. "I'm shocked."

He shrugged, grinning. "We were young and not very bright. How did you get it?"

"I have my ways. You also sent a piece to the Smithsonian, one to the DCI, and one to the White House."

"Ah. Did I send nice notes with them?"

Lily nodded. "Positively poetic notes," she promised. Then she slid away, taking her uniformed admirer by the arm. "Tony, I've got somebody I want you to meet."

Control followed her with his eyes. She led the tall Marine to the bar, where she introduced him to Vanessa Wong, the New York recruiter. He nodded to himself, understanding. Lily was bringing another poor sucker into the fold. He glanced at the rock again, considered it with satisfaction. He would not have asked for this, but he was pleased past words to have it.

"Quite a remarkable accomplishment," McCall said conversationally at his elbow. "Quite a coincidence, her knowing exactly what piece to get."

Control looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "It is, isn't it?"

"And a Marine recruit as a bonus. Is there nothing that young woman can't do?"

"She can't shoot straight," Stock offered, brushing past him.

Robert and Control shared a long look. Then McCall shook his head in amused disapproval and walked over to obtain his own piece of the Wall.

Control watched Lily for a moment longer. She was working hard to land her young man, her hand on his thick forearm, her smile focused just on him. He wasn't resisting. Vanessa was wisely just waiting while they chatted. She knew well enough the boy was already in the boat.

Control couldn't decide whether to be proud or furious.

He slipped back into the shadows.

***

_In Europe and America, there's a growing feeling of hysteria_   
_Conditioned to respond to all the threats_   
_In the rhetorical speeches of the Soviets_   
_Mr. Krushchev said we will bury you_   
_I don't subscribe to this point of view_   
_It would be such an ignorant thing to do_

 

Robert wanted to hate the music. He expected only rock-and-roll, too loud, too mindless. Instead, the soundtrack for the party was remarkably mixed. There was rock, of course, but there was also Sinatra. Broadway selections rubbed elbows with soft jazz and Elvis Presley. There did not, at first, seem to be any common thread to the musical selections.

The longer he listened, though, the more Robert understood that the songs did, indeed, have a theme. They were all about one of two things: being a spy, in all its incarnations, or being far from the ones you love, far from home. The first batch, he was willing to bet, had come from the office staff. The second were the longings of field ops.

He looked around the room. Their lives, set to music. Indeed. It was more than background music.

One wordy ballad he was half-ignoring, until the refrain stopped him dead in his tracks.

But what might save us, me and you, is if the Russians love their children, too.

A simple sentiment, and profound as well. Perhaps this pop music had more to say than McCall had given it credit for.

The world was changing, he mused, changing profoundly at this very moment. Perhaps it was fitting if he changed just a bit, too.

***

_Espionage is a serious business,_   
_Well I've had enough of this serious business,_   
_That dancing girl is making eyes at me,_   
_I'm sure she's working for the KGB_

 

James Simms arrived at the party directly form the airport. He had had a grand time in Berlin, but he was exhausted. He intended just to put in a token appearance and take himself home to a hot shower and a warm bed. The minute he hit the door, though, Walker was at his elbow. "Thank God you're here, I'll have somebody to talk to."

Simms looked out over the sizable crowd. Three or four hundred people here, and Walker couldn't find anyone to talk to? "You need a woman," he muttered.

"Oh, yeah," Walker snorted. "Catch me dating one of the help. You know how fast Control would bounce my ass?"

Simms shrugged. His colleague had a point. Down in the ranks, a little fraternization was fine. Expected, even. At their level, it would be career suicide.

He caught a glimpse of Lily Romanov moving through the crowd. She had on a little black dress, and she wore the hell out of it. Here's to falling on your own sword, Simms thought grimly. But it wasn't an issue. Lily was friendly and helpful and sometimes insanely cheerful about her job, but as far as he could tell, she didn't date the people she worked with. Any of them.

There had been that matter with Harley Gage, but that had been years ago. Maybe it had been enough to put her off Company men entirely.

He shrugged again. "I'm going to get a drink," he announced, and did.

***

_Swear allegiance to the flag, whatever flag they offer._   
_Never hint at what you really feel._   
_Teach the children quietly for someday sons and daughters,_   
_will rise and fight while we stood still._

 

Eventually, and perhaps inevitably, McCall found himself in the back corner of the room, at a table hidden in shadows, behind the speakers. Control was already there, comfortably sipping a Scotch with Charlie McGuinn. They’d had the foresight to bring the bottle with them.

Control gestured to a chair. "Welcome to the senior center," he rumbled genially.

Robert grunted and graciously accepted a refill of his glass. "At least it’s half-way quiet."

Pete O’Phelan arrived, with Ellen in tow. She brought a second bottle with her. "Is this the dinosaur table?"

"It is," Charlie told her. "Make yourselves at home."

"The children seem to be having a good time," Ellen commented, pouring herself a hefty refill from the open bottle.

Control gazed out over the crowd. There was dancing and drinking and a lot of arm-waving story-telling. He wondered sardonically how many of the stories were exaggerations, and how many were out-right lies. Half? More? It didn’t matter.

It was easy to find Lily, despite her petite stature. All he had to do was find the biggest collection of young men, and she’d be in the middle of it. Like Scarlett O’Hara taking barbeque. The Marine had disappeared, thankfully. She could have any of them, he thought. Or any five or six of them, for that matter. What in the world was she doing with him?

It was far from the first time he’d had that thought.

He looked away, and found Robert gazing at him with a knowing expression. His old friend knew who he’d been looking at, and probably guessed what he’d been thinking. Control half-shrugged.

"When did they all get so young?" Charlie mused.

"All the old ones died off," Ellen answered.

Pete shook her head. "Or they’re all at home in bed, with their heating pads and their Ovaltine."

"Not all of them," Control countered. He nodded towards the dance floor. In the middle of it, the mailroom attendant was gleefully wheeling his chair among the writhing bodies. It didn’t seem to matter, to him or anyone else, that he’d lost both legs on a Company mission years and years before.

"Walker looks a little awkward, though," McGuinn observed.

It took Control a moment to locate his lieutenant. The man was on the far fringe of the crowd, pretending half-heartedly to dance. He still had his tie and jacket on. "I wonder if Jason will put in an appearance."

"Was he invited?" Robert asked.

"No one was invited," Ellen answered. "It was all word-of-mouth, wasn’t it?"

"I was invited," Pete said. "Repeatedly."

McCall nodded. "Me, too. But I doubt anyone would have spread the word to Mr. Masur."

"You’d think a security chief would find out on his own," Charlie replied. "Walker, now, he reminds me of someone."

"Reiser," Control said immediately.

The table collectively groaned. "That’s it," Charlie agreed.

"What an asshole," Ellen pronounced with her usual directness.

"The perfect combination of ambition and incompetence," Robert agreed. "There was a time when I was genuinely afraid he’d be made a Director."

"And then he vanished," McGuinn mused. "I wonder what really happened to him.

There was a moment on conspiratorial silence around the table. Finally, quietly, Pete said, "Equipment failure."

"Oh." Charlie considered her for a moment. He’d half-forgotten that she’d once been the head of development. "Bless your heart." He took her hand and kissed it.

"I think Jason could do with a little equipment failure," Ellen snorted. She gestured to Control. "You were right, he did have my office bugged. Thanks for the heads-up."

He nodded grimly. He was still angry over the incident.

"As I understand it," Robert ventured carefully, "Jason does have occasional bouts of, er, personal equipment failure."

"Do tell," Pete urged.

"We must know," Ellen insisted.

McCall chuckled. "It seems that our Jason has a problem with color-changing urine." To the women’s questioning looks, he added, "Bright blue, day-glo orange, chartreuse."

The table erupted in laughter. "How did you manage that?" Charlie demanded.

"Not me," Robert replied innocently. "I am only reporting what I’ve heard."

"Who, then?" Ellen wanted to know.

"I really can’t say."

McGuinn turned to Control. "This has your fingerprints all over it."

Control shook his head. "I have absolutely no knowledge of any of this." He looked up, a little startled, as Lily Romanov came to the table. "Speak of the devil."

Lily grinned. "Talking about me again?"

"We were most emphatically not talking about you and your relationship to Jason Masur’s medical issues."

She shrugged. "It’s his mental issues I’m more concerned with." She pulled up a chair, sat, and stuck her glass out.

Charlie filled her glass, emptying the first of their bottles. "Well, there’s another soldier done," he said. "You’ve done well, soldier." He kissed the empty bottle on its label, passed it to Control, who did the same and passed it on. When the bottle had made it around the table and been properly thanked by the gathered company, he tossed it over his shoulder.

"Have you lost the Marine already?" Ellen asked.

Lily shook her head. "He’s out with Vanessa, smoking and talking about contracts and career possibilities."

"You’re just a walking recruitment drive, aren’t you?" McGuinn said. "That’s what, ten this year?"

"Twelve," Lily answered. "I do so love my signing bonuses."

Ellen shook her head. "I don’t know. The problem with a Marine is, you can’t make a decent agent out of him until you get the stick out of his ass."

"Ah, but she’s just the girl to do it," Charlie countered.

Pete nodded across the room. The Marine, immaculate posture and all, had returned. "Four days," she speculated.

"Three, at least," Ellen agreed. "If I were twenty years younger, I’d take a run at that one myself."

"Something about a man in uniform," Lily sighed. "Even when he’s not." She turned to study her latest recruit. "Maybe two days," she said, turning back to the table, "if I ever get my handcuffs back."

"You have handcuffs?" Pete asked.

"And more to the point, dear," Charlie added eagerly, "where did you leave them?"

"I handcuffed Kostmayer to a bed in West Berlin."

Control’s eyebrow shot up, but he managed to keep the rest of his face blank. "Why?" he asked, his voice half a pitch higher than usual.

"He was having marital problems," Lily answered sweetly.

"He’s not married," Pete pointed out.

"That’s the problem," Lily agreed. "He proposed to Anne Keller. She said no."

"Really?" Robert asked. "That’s a surprise."

"It was to him," Lily answered.

"So," Charlie ventured, "how do the handcuffs help that?"

"I gave Annie the key," Lily answered, as if that explained everything. He frowned, still puzzled, so she went on. "I told her she could keep him chained up until they talked through their issues."

"Tough love," Ellen observed. "Think it’ll work?"

Lily sighed. "Too close to call. But it was the only option I saw."

Control templed his fingers. "How did Mickey take all of this?"

"Wellll …" Lily smiled nervously, "he wasn’t happy about it. If it works out, then it’s fine. If it doesn’t, I’m gonna need to avoid him for … oh, five or six years."

"That’s delightful, Lily," he said dryly. "He will break your pretty little neck for this."

She shrugged uneasily. "He has to catch me first."

"I’m sure Mickey wouldn’t …" Robert began. Then he reconsidered the reassurance he’d been about to offer. "I’ll talk to him for you."

"Can’t hurt," Lily agreed. Her eyes never left Control’s. For all the lightness of the banter, they both knew how serious the situation could become. But only his eyes showed how furious he was at the chance she’d taken, and they showed it only to her. "It’ll be okay," she said softly.

Control straightened, changed the subject. "About Miss Keller. I understand she’s been traveling on Company credentials."

"You told me to get really good pictures of the Wall," Lily answered. "Anne Keller is the best there is."

"I didn’t tell you to take a civilian with you."

"You didn’t tell me not to."

"You didn’t ask."

"No," Lily admitted. "I didn’t."

There was a discernable pause.

Charlie leaned over the table. "Are you sure she’s not really a politician?" he asked.

"I brought you something," Lily told Control, changing the subject. "But you have to promise not to ask any questions."

"Asking questions is what I do," he answered firmly.

The woman sighed. "Fine. Then I’ll just keep it." She reached into the v-neck of her dress and drew a parcel from her cleavage, rather more slowly than was strictly necessary. It was small enough to be concealed by her hand, wrapped in a white handkerchief. She cupped her hands on each side of the item and waited.

There was a long pause. "He can’t resist it," Ellen ventured.

"No," Robert agreed. "He’s like a cat. Now that he’s seen it, he must know what’s in it."

Control scowled at him. "I am not like a cat." He turned his most commanding gaze on Lily. She continued to wait.

"He has the patience of a cat, too," Ellen added, after another pause. "He’ll sit there all night if he needs to."

"He’ll give in, sooner or later," Pete predicted.

"Look, I want to know what that thing is," Charlie said with exasperation. "Just tell her you won’t ask any questions. You can always renege later."

"No, he can’t," Lily answered. She sat perfectly still, watching, waiting, her eyes bright with mischief.

Teasing, and Control knew it. He would have his revenge for it later, in private. He loved being teased by Lily, and teasing her back. He loved being playful, a trait he thought he’d lost years before. The episode with Kostmayer was fading into the background, no doubt exactly as she’d planned. No matter what she did – including baiting one of his most lethal agents – he couldn’t stay angry with her. He was utterly, unreservedly besotted with the woman.

But here and now, he needed to hide it.

He tore his eyes away from hers and regarded the tiny parcel again. She had handled it like it was heavy for its size. It would be something quite remarkable, he was sure of that. But he couldn’t imagine what it was.

He wondered if he was fast enough to reach across the table and grab it.

He caught her watchful eyes again and knew he wasn’t …

… unless he distracted her.

Control shifted his gaze over her left shoulder and tensed ever so slightly. "Kostmayer," he said quietly.

Lily tensed, too, but she didn’t turn. "I doubt it," she answered. His expression revealed the trick, and she grinned. "Nice try, though."

They fell into stand-off silence for a third time.

"Oh, for God’s sake!" Robert finally exclaimed. He leaned and whispered briefly in Control’s ear.

His friend considered, then nodded. "Yes. Good." He looked back to Lily. "I will not ask any questions about that object. I promise."

The agent regarded him with considerable suspicion. She glanced at McCall, who put on his most harmless and innocent face. With an unconvinced sigh, she reached across the table and placed the parcel gently in his hand.

Control received it cautiously, curiously. It did not move, which he considered a great relief. It was heavy, cool, lumpy. His slender fingers trembled as he peeled back the corners of the handkerchief.

When he finally saw the contents, he could only say, "Oh."

The other seniors leaned forward for a look. There on the bed of white in his hand lay the most ordinary of objects: a padlock. This one was bulky and oversized, built for heavy duty. It was pitted and rusty with age, testimony to its three decades of exposure to the elements. It was also savagely broken, the hasp cut and twisted with bolt cutters, the stark wounds shiny on the rusted body.

An old, common, broken padlock.

"Oh, my," Robert breathed.

"That can’t be," Pete whispered.

"Good Lord, child," Charlie said, very softly, "how did you get your hands on that?"

Control barely heard them. He stared across the table into the eyes of his lover. For one unguarded moment he could see in her face the depth of her love for him. This most ordinary lock, this most extraordinary gift from the most extraordinary woman he had ever known. And how in the world …

"It’s the last lock, isn’t it?" McCall said softly. He reached two fingers out to touch it, as if it were a sacred relic. In a way, it was.

"It is," Lily answered, her face returning to its customary composure. "Last on, first off."

The last permanent lock on the last gate closed in the Berlin wall. Checkpoint Charlie’s locks didn’t count; they opened and closed on a regular basis. This lock had been locked, and stayed locked, the entire time the Wall had stood. This had been the last lock, the lock that broke the hearts of a city – and a world.

Charlie McGuinn reached out and touched it as well. "How in the world did you get this?" he asked again.

Control shook off his wonder and nudged McCall. Robert sat up. "Right then. How exactly did you come by this?"

Lily Romanov just shook her head. "Questions through surrogates are still questions. I’m not telling you how I got it."

Pete took her turn touching the artifact. "It belongs in a museum, really."

Control grunted. "I’ll leave it to one in my will." His hand, the one with the lock in it, was still shaking. How in hell had she managed this?

"Are they dead," Ellen asked, her own fingers brushing the lock, "or just very, very satisfied?"

Lily smiled sweetly. For a moment she looked like an innocent ten-year-old who’d finally managed to really surprise someone on Christmas morning. Then she stood up. "I’ve got a party to liven up," she announced, "and a Marine to de-stick." The walk, as she left the table, was definitely not that of a ten-year-old.

"Remarkable," Robert said, though whether he was commenting on the lock or the walk was unclear.

"You know," Charlie mused, opening the second Scotch bottle, "I’ve never taken an interest in a much younger woman, but that one could change my mind."

McCall grinned slyly. "Well, she does seem to be the adventurous type. You could take a run at her, see what happens."

McGuinn poured himself a drink. "I just might do that."

"You wouldn’t know what to do with her if you caught her," Ellen snorted, holding her own glass out for a refill.

"And I suppose you would?" Charlie retorted.

The senior spy took a long, slow drink of Scotch, watching the younger woman cross the room. "Well, I don’t usually swing that way. But if I did, I think I’d start with the handcuffs."

Control glanced up at her. "What?" Ellen protested. "For God’s sake, Control, would you look at that woman? If you had a pulse you’d be chasing her, too."

"Hmmm," Control allowed. He carefully folded the handkerchief back over the lock.

"I thought you were, for a while, Robert," Pete said cheerfully.

McCall shook his head ruefully. "Ah, no. Not that particular young lady, no. I am far too old and wise to join in that chase."

Control glanced at him sideways. "And when are we going to meet the new lady, old son?"

"Never," Robert answered crisply. "I am keeping her well away from all of you pirates." He watched while his friend tucked his gift away in his shirt pocket. There was a curiously serene look on Control’s face, a look that said he was planning something. Robert could always hear the gears turning when his friend’s face took on that expression. "Give it up, Control," he advised. "She’ll never tell you how she got it."

Control smiled tightly. "We’ll see. We’ll see."

***


	9. Chapter 9

_There is someone walking behind you,_   
_Turn around, look at me._   
_There is someone watching your footsteps,_   
_Turn around, look at me_

 

"Ah, no," Vince Norris muttered. "No, no, no." He looked around. "Lily," he called, "Lily, honey. I need your help."

The courier slid around the edge of the bar to his side. "What’s up?"

Vince nodded toward the dance floor. "He’s at it again."

Lily followed his gesture. Couples snuggling up, slow-dancing. Some to be expected, some not. At the fringe, Harley Gage was wrapped around Vince’s trainee, Nancy Campbell. His hand was a shade too low on her back already, and her eyes were much too enthralled with whatever he was saying.

"Ah, shit," Lily pronounced.

"He never learns."

She shook her head. "Hang on, let me find – Mark! Mark, come here a minute."

The young field op ambled over, grinning uncertainly. "Hey, Lil."

"I need you to rescue a damsel in distress."

He reached for her empty glass. "Sure. What can I get you?"

"Not me." She turned him around and pointed. "Her."

"Who, Harley’s girl?"

"She’s not Harley’s girl," the two older agents protested in unison. Lily took Mark’s arm. "C’mon."

"Hold it," Vince said quickly. "Too slow."

Across the floor, the ill-advised couple was already being separated – by no less person than Control himself. As the trio watched, the spymaster firmly, politely shouldered Gage aside and took the startled rookie in his arms. Bewildered, Harley stammered some protest and stalked off.

"Very nice," Vince observed.

"Uh-huh," Lily agreed. She never took her eyes off the dancing couple.

"Yeah," Mark said, "but now who’s going to rescue her from him?"

Vince shook his head. "She don’t need rescuing now," he said. "She’s safe as in her mama’s arms."

Mark stared at him, then looked to Lily. "He’s kidding, right?"

Lily shook her head, still watching the couple. "Control has his faults, but he’s always a gentleman."

"She doesn’t look very happy," Mark protested.

Lily studied the dancers. Control was talking softly. Whatever he was saying, Nancy Campbell was drinking in every word. She was far more enchanted by Control than she had been by Gage. He wasn’t talking, Lily realized; he was chanting to her. The voice, the rhythm of his words, the pitch. She couldn’t hear them, not this far away, but she could feel the power of his chant anyhow. The rookie was unwinding in Control’s arms, and Lily with her. Whatever Mark thought he saw, Nancy Campbell was perfectly content.

If he hadn’t been such a gentleman, Lily mused, Control could have taken the young agent directly home from there. But of course Control’s behavior with female subordinates had always been beyond reproach.

As far as anyone knew.

Lily watched the younger woman’s rapt expression and felt a sudden surge of envy. She got to be in his arms, got to hear his voice, to feel the warmth of his vague smile. Lily could only stand and watch. She did not dare approach him, did not dare dance with him even once, with all these people watching …

Or did she?

She took a deep breath. You have your dance, she thought smugly. I still get to take him home.

She looked around, and caught Robert watching her watching Control. His lips were pursed, but his eyes twinkled with disapproving amusement. Robert had never quite known what to make of her relationship with Control. If he’d had any idea how things stood now …

Then Pete O’Phelan claimed Robert’s hand and dragged him out to the dance floor, too.

"We gotta go get her," Mark insisted.

Lily turned, startled. She’d forgotten he was there. He was watching Nancy anxiously, as if she were already his girl. Well, Lily thought, she really shouldn’t, but for Mark’s sake … for Nancy’s sake … and because Robert would so thoroughly disapprove …

The song wound down; a new one started before the dancers had a chance to leave the floor.

_Restless hearts sleep alone tonight, sending all my love along the wire._   
_They say that the road ain’t no place to start a family …_

It would be that song. She’d put it on the list, but Scott had decided how to line them up. That song, as close to a theme song as she and Control had. If that little rookie thought she was going to get to dance with him to it, she had another thing coming.

"Now," she said. She grabbed Mark’s hand and dragged him onto the floor.

He followed eagerly. He might have expected some elegant transition, but Lily simply edged between their boss and the rookie. "My turn," she announced, sliding into Control’s startled but unresisting arms.

Nancy stepped back, bewildered, and Mark caught her into his own arms. "Hi, I’m Mark," he said, already moving to the music.

"Uh, hi. I’m Nancy. Where’d you get that scar?"

Mark chuckled. "Everybody asks me that."

"Told you so," Lily called.

Control spun her away, to the edge of the floor. They were still very visible, and they were very aware of it. They danced, maintaining artificial tension between them. Their bodies were too accustomed to the motion; they wanted to relax, to melt. The bodies remembered too many nights when he’d pulled her off the couch and danced her sensually around her living room. Too many nights when they’d ended up back on the couch, horizontal and still slow-dancing. Their bodies remembered, and their bodies desired. But their minds knew better; they fought, wordlessly, to keep from looking too comfortable.

"We thought you needed rescuing," Lily said conversationally.

He snorted. "One more song, and I’ve had her loyalty unto death."

"One more song and she would have been a puddle at your feet."

Control nodded. "Well, that, too."

"And I would have had to fly into a jealous rage – it would’ve been ugly. I'm your favorite courier, and don't you forget it."

He leaned a little closer, lowered his voice. "This probably isn’t wise."

Lily nodded her understanding. "Then drop me off somewhere."

"No." His hand tightened just a bit on her back. "No." And then, his voice strangled, "Lily."

She’d been looking over his shoulder, but she shifted, looked into his eyes – for an instant. Her breath caught, and she looked resolutely over his shoulder again. "Stop looking at me like that."

Control chuckled, aware that he was suddenly supporting her weight. "Every man in the room is looking at you like that."

"Yeah, but none of them make my knees go weak when they look at me."

"And I still do? After all this time?"

She looked back into his eyes. "Every damn time," she answered honestly.

He held her gaze; let his become his absolute most smoldering. "How’d you get the lock, Lily?" he purred.

She threw her head back and laughed out loud. People did turn to look then, but it didn’t matter. The laugh was definitely not of the intimate sort. If they wondered what the spymaster had said to make the woman laugh like that – let them wonder. Control had many mysteries about him.

_Being apart ain't easy on this love affair,_   
_Two strangers learn to fall in love again._   
_I get the joy of re-discovering you …_

"I’m not telling," Lily said firmly.

"You’ll tell me sooner or later."

"No, I don’t think I will."

"We’ll see," Control said serenely. "We have ways of making you talk."

Lily raised one speculative eyebrow. "We?" she inquired. "You and the mouse in your pocket?"

"Are we calling it a mouse now? Last time it was a rat."

Lily laughed again. "Rat it is," she agreed.

They fell silent, enjoying the novelty of being so close, of touching in a crowd of people. They had been fiercely careful to keep their relationship a secret. But this occasion gave them a single chance, a single dance, to be together where other people could see them.

_You really know me, that's all I need to know._   
_Maybe I'm an open book because I know you're mine,_   
_But you won't need to read between the lines._   
_For your eyes only, only for you._

"May I?" Robert said, tapping his oldest friend on the shoulder.

Control growled. "Of course. We’ve been expecting you." He surrendered Lily, turned and nearly stepped on Ellen. "Hello, dear."

"Hello, Blue Eyes." She slid into his arms. "Nice party. What’s it gonna cost you?"

He sighed. "I’m afraid to ask." He looked over her shoulder and just for a moment watched his lover, shimmering gracefully in Robert McCall’s arms. "But it was worth it."

***

_Not much between despair and ecstasy_   
_One night in Bangkok makes the tough guys tumble_   
_Can't be too careful with your company_   
_I can feel the devil walking next to me_

 

Simms watched his boss with great interest.

He knew exactly why Control had moved to take the rookie out of Gage's arms. There were, by Simms' count, no less than five men prepared to do exactly the same thing. They knew Harley, here in New York. They weren't about to give him a free shot.

But when Control then danced with Romanov, that was something different. It indicated, for one thing, that Simms himself was now allowed to dance with her, or with any other of the employees. He probably would. But for a moment he stayed where he was and just watched them.

An impossible notion danced through the back of his mind. He dismissed it, unexamined. There was no way in hell that Control would ever, ever think of … it was impossible.

Simms already knew they were close. Everybody in the Company did. She's taken a bullet for Control once, saved his life. He'd gotten her back on the job after the incredible screw-up that had landed her a prisoner in Nicaragua. She was his favorite courier. Possibly his favorite employee. But that was all there was to it.

Still – the way the man looked at the woman. The way the woman looked at the man. It was one instant and then it was gone.

Impossible. Even if the woman would—and Simms knew Lily well enough to think that she might not be above sleeping up – Control absolutely would not. It was inconceivable.

He drank slowly as he watched McCall cut in on them. There were rumors about Romanov and McCall, too. Romanov and Kostmayer. Romanov and Gorbachev, for heaven's sake. She did look as easy in his arms as she had in Control's. The woman was an incurable flirt, that was all. Hell, she'd brought her own Marine to the party. He was imagining things.

Yet, Simms' instinct nagged, there was something there.

He sipped his drink, and he watched, and he pondered.

***

_Who wants to live forever?_   
_There's no chance for us_   
_It's all decided for us_   
_This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us_

 

Nancy didn’t notice the music transition. "It must have been so scary," she said. Almost on its own, her hand came up and brushed across the red scar on Mark’s forehead. "You could have been killed."

The young agent shrugged. "It’s just what we call in the trade a boo-boo. It bled like crazy – head wounds do – but it really wasn’t that bad."

She frowned, concerned. "But just a fraction of an inch …"

Mark shrugged again. "You should have seen the shot Lily made. She was on her knees, crying her eyes out …"

"Wait – what?"

"She wasn’t really crying," Mark corrected. "I mean, she was, but it was just to throw them off. Vlad had a major thing for her anyhow, and once she started crying like that you could see him start thinking below the belt … sorry, that was crude."

Nancy shook her head. "It’s okay, but start at the beginning."

"Can I get you a drink first?"

She nodded, smiling. Mark took her hand and led her off the floor, found her a seat at the bar and told her his adventures in Yugoslavia.

The rookie courier listened with undisguised fascination.

***

_His comrades fought beside him – Van Owen and the rest_   
_But of all the Thompson gunners Roland was the best_   
_So the CIA decided they wanted Roland dead_   
_That son-of-a-bitch Van Owen blew off Roland’s head_

 

Vince Norris claimed Lily’s next dance. "I’m not sure that’s much of an improvement," he grumbled, gesturing towards the couple at the bar.

"It’ll be okay, Vince. Mark’s a good guy."

"I don’t like it."

Lily chuckled, noting the lines of worry on her former trainer’s chocolate features. "She’s not a little girl, Vince."

"She’s still a rookie. She’s still my rookie. And she’ll be good, if she doesn’t get tripped up too early. She could be better than you are."

"Nobody’s better than I am," Lily replied pertly.

"Well … nobody’s luckier, anyhow."

She considered the couple at the bar. The spark between them was obvious, even from this distance. "Field ops and couriers," she mused. "You can’t fight biology. At least it’s not Gage."

"Him!" Vince snorted. "Next time I’ll get you a live grenade."

"Next time I’ll use it."

***

_Hungry as hell no food to eat_   
_And Joe said that he would sell his soul_   
_For just a piece of meat_

 

"Shoulda’ got more food," Sterno fussed from behind a three-inch high sandwich.

"We’ve got plenty," Stock answered. "They’ve barely made a dent in it."

Sterno surveyed the table. Food left for maybe two hundred people. "What if we get a late crowd? They’ll be hungry."

"If they come late, they can go to the drive-through up the street."

The rotund agent shook his head. "Maybe I should call for some pizzas."

Stock threw his hands in the air and walked off.

***

_Why can't you see_   
_What you're doing to me_   
_When you don't believe a word I say?_   
_We can't go on together_   
_With suspicious minds_

 

Ellen crossed her arms and frankly stared. "I don't know," she finally said. "It seems unlikely."

Pete, at her shoulder, also stared at the most outstanding aspect of the Velvet Elvis mural. "Interesting to look at," she agreed, "but only from a distance."

"I don't think I'd have wanted to see it up close and personal, no."

"I seen bigger than that," Harley Gage commented. He was fairly drunk, starting to slur his words.

"Where?" Ellen challenged. "In prison?"

He smirked crookedly. "In the mirror, every morning."

The two older women looked him up and down – and silently agreed that he was lying. "Got to get that magnifying mirror out of your room," Peter commented dryly.

"Ah-ha-ha. You could come and see for yourself, if you want." He gestured towards the side rooms.

The women shared a look and burst out laughing. "Both of us," Ellen asked, "or one at a time?"

"Whichever you ladies prefer."

"I think I prefer to have another drink," Pete said. They moved away, still laughing.

Harley watched them go, glowering. He turned around just in time to see his first choice, the luscious Nancy, snuggling up at the bar with the brat Mark. How the hell had that youngster managed to cut his time?

But he knew that, too. It wasn't Mark that had kept him from the pliant rookie. It was Romanov, on her babysitting crusade. And Vince Norris, and even Control. What was with these people? He wasn't such a bad guy, was he?

It wasn't fair, Harley thought grimly. Grumbling, he went to get another drink.

***

_It seems crazy but you must believe_   
_There's nothing calculated, nothing planned._   
_Please forgive me if I seem naïve,_   
_I would never want to force your hand,_   
_But please understand I'd be good for you._

 

McCall could not resist it. There were so few chances to tango these days, and fewer still with a partner who knew what the hell she was doing. He snagged Pete O'Phelan out of Vince Norris' arms, kept her hand and flung her out to the end of his reach.

She paused there, looked at him and smiled. A bare twitch, and she spun back towards him.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and they stepped, twice. Then he shifted his grip and dropped her, almost to the floor. Spun her back up. It had been a decade since they danced like this, and yet Pete still remembered every move, every cue. It was as if they were making up the dance with a single mind as they went.

The floor cleared for them.

It was, Robert thought to himself, a perfectly marvelous party.

***

_You're seeing now a veteran of a thousand psychic wars:_   
_My energy is spent at last, and my armor is destroyed,_   
_I have used up all my weapons, and I'm helpless and bereaved._   
_Wounds are all I'm made of!_

 

"You call that a scar?" Jimmy grumbled. "That ain’t much of a scar."

Mark turned, uneasy. "No, I keep telling her, it wasn’t much of anything, really …"

"You want to see scars? I got a scar here that’ll turn your hair white."

"No, no, really …" Nancy tried to protest.

Too late; Jimmy had already untucked his shirt and pulled it up, turned to show her a scar that ran all the way across his back. "Now that, there, that’s a scar. Went all the way to the bone, you could see my ribs beneath it."

"Oh, for God sake, Jimmy, put your clothes back on." Carter Brock joined them at the bar. "Beer, please?" he called to the bartender. "If you hadn’t been with that woman’s sister, she wouldn’t have cut you like that."

"Hey, it wasn’t like that," Jimmy protested. "We broke up. She had no right to be all jealous like that."

"You broke up that morning," Carter pointed out.

"So that isn’t from … work?" Nancy asked.

"Oh, he was working," Brock laughed. "At least as far as the record shows."

Jimmy scowled. "Go on, show her that piddly little thing you got."

Carter pulled back his collar and pointed to an old gunshot scar just below his collar bone. "See? That’s what a real scar looks like."

"Yeah," Jimmy mocked, "from a .22"

"Hey, at least it’s a gunshot, and not from some kitchen knife."

"It was a butcher knife! She could have killed me."

"Hey, I got a way better gunshot scar than that," Stock said as he joined the group. He put his left foot up on the edge of the bar and pulled his pant leg up. The scar covered most of his calf. "Mach 10. Bulgaria. Lost most of the meat off there. Hurt like a bitch." He noticed Nancy. "Pardon the expression."

She flustered, turned pink. "No, just … I … how did you get away?"

"I crawled," Jacob answered, as if that were obvious.

"Hey, that might be more impressive," Carter protested, "but this one could have killed me. Nobody dies from losing a pound of ground chuck off his leg."

"Well, I’m the one that caught the head-shot," Mark protested.

"You should’ve ducked," Jimmy advised dryly. "Everybody knows Romanov can’t shoot straight."

"Lily didn’t shoot me, this Yugoslav terrorist did …"

"Are you sure?" Stock asked.

"Yeah, I’m … uh … pretty sure."

"Uh-huh." Stock put his foot down, pushed up his sleeve. "Now this one here, this is from …"

"You have no scars worth discussing!"

The group turned. A very tall, very thin man stood behind them, a tall, thin glass of vodka in his hand. "Eyeore!" Stock called. "How the hell are you!"

"Eyeore?" Nancy asked under her breath.

"Igor," Carter assured her, "but with the silent ‘g’. He came over the Wall ten years ago."

"Yes, I did!" he boomed. "And I have the real scar to prove it!"

He raised his hand to his left ear and removed it. "You see?" he said, pointing to the place where his ear should have been. There was only mangled flesh and scar tissue, enough to attach his prosthetic ear to. "My ear, I left on the razor wire on the Wall. This, now, this is a scar."

"You left it …?" Nancy asked.

"I climb the Wall," he told her. "They shoot at me. I hurry, I jump. I clear the wire, all but my ear. I fall to the ground in the West, in a chicken yard. The soldiers still try to shoot me. I hide in the shadows, all night long, and I look for my ear, but I never find it."

"Well, maybe they’ll find it now," Jimmy said gloomily. "It’s got to be there somewhere."

"It is gone," Igor answered. "The chickens ate it, long ago. I leave a note on the Wall, where I hide all night and try to find my ear. Soon the Wall will be gone, and the note, too." He slipped his false ear back on. "It is good." He lifted his glass and drained it. The gathered company drank with him.

The contest over, they returned to their various pursuits.

"You okay?" Mark asked quietly.

Nancy shook her head. "Just so many … interesting people here. I mean, I knew … I thought I knew what I was getting into, but … but …"

He put his arm around her, lightly, protectively. "Just stay close. You’ll be okay."

She nestled against him gratefully.

***

  
_From out of the shadows she walks like a dream_   
_Makes me feel crazy, makes me feel so mean_   
_Ain't nothin' gonna save you from a love that's blind_   
_When you slip to the dark side you cross that line_

 

Sometime after midnight, as Control was moving to exit quietly the way he'd come, the carrier landings began.

The maneuver had other names – bar slide, beer dive, body bowling, suicide slam – but Control always thought of it by the first name he'd heard for it, back in his flying days. It was a simple stunt, in theory: take a running start, jump head-first onto the bar, and slide to the far end. Done correctly, it was impressively athletic, almost elegant. In reality, however, it was only ever attempted by men too drunk to accomplish it.

Harley Gage started it. Having failed to obtain female companionship, he'd settled on becoming stumbling drunk. As soon as Control heard the words, "Watch this, watch this," he knew what the agent intended. He turned to watch, his face expressionless.

Gage ran, jumped, slid the width of four bar stools, and fell off behind the bar. There was a long silence before he called, "I'm okay."

Control shook his head and turned to go.

"Hell, I can do better than that," someone called. The next contestant went two stools further and fell off on the public side of the bar.

"I got it now, I got it," Harley promised. On his second approach, he missed the jump entirely and ran full-on into the end of the bar.

"He's done," Lily announced as she and Sterno hauled him up from the floor. They handed him over to a designated driver, over his rambling protests.

I was young and foolish once, Control mused, and I was very good at carrier landings.

It might have ended at that, had not Lily's Marine decided to take his turn. He was not nearly drunk, and he slid smoothly to within a yard of the far end of the bar, then dismounted gracefully, to the enthusiastic applause of the crowd.

Control was not nearly drunk, either. Far from it. But he'd had one drink too many to watch his lover applaud another man, her eyes sparkling with fun and admiration, and let it pass. He walked slowly to the bar, poured himself one last drink, then climbed onto a stool and then up to stand on the bar itself. The crowd grew quiet.

"Queue up the torture tape," Stock said, just a little too loud.

"I haven't signed that expense report yet," Control reminded him lightly. The agent visibly flinched. "I am not going to make a speech," Control went on. "Just a brief toast before I go."

The agents around him fell respectfully, if rather unsteadily, silent.

"Everyone here tonight," Control said, "has done exemplary work towards this achievement that we're celebrating. Each of you in your own way contributed, and you deserve far more thanks and appreciation than you're likely to get. So from me, personally, thank you all."

He considered, then continued. "There are a lot of people who aren't here tonight. To those who are still working, I also extend my thanks. And to those who have gone on ahead of us … our deepest thanks. We miss you."

He brought his glass up. "Ladies and gentlemen, to the fall of the Wall."

"The fall of the Wall!" they repeated, and they drank.

Control climbed down from the bar and walked towards the elevator. When he got to where Lily stood he stopped, considering her. Then he nodded in silent decision. He put his empty glass down on a table. Then he took off his sport coat and handed it to her. She took it, surprised. When he handed her his gun as well, comprehension dawned in her eyes. Her mouth dropped open. "You're kidding."

He winked and turned back to the bar. The crowd quieted again, not sure what he was doing. Certainly none of them expected what happened next.

Their cool, reserved, unapproachable, respectable boss, dressed entirely in black, took three running strides, dove onto the bar, slid at high speed all the way to the far end, grabbed the brass rail there and flipped himself completely over, so that he landed in his feet, facing the same way he'd begun.

Then he turned in the silence, walked back to the woman, collected his gun and his jacket, and left.

Behind him, the room went crazy.

***

_Swingin' on the Riviera one day_   
_And then layin' in the Bombay alley next day_   
_Oh no, you let the wrong word slip_   
_While kissing persuasive lips_   
_The odds are you won't live to see tomorrow._

 

Holy shit, Simms thought suddenly, he is sleeping with Romanov.

He couldn't prove it. Couldn't begin to prove it. All he had was a dance, a look, and a stunt. But he was absolutely certain.

It was, he considered, possibly a lot more than 'sleeping with'.

The realization shook him to his core. He'd known the human failings of his fellow lieutenants. But to find out that the unshakable, unfailable, all-knowing, all-seeing Control was as human as he was …

… and holy hell, that he'd landed that woman …

Simms shook his head. So Control is human after all, he thought to himself. You never thought he wasn't, not really. You've seen him bleed. So now what? Tell someone? Absolutely not. There was no threat in this, no danger to the Company. Even if you had the proof, which you don't … do what Control would do. Gather it, save it, wait for your moment. The moment might never come at all.

But it might. It might.

Simms went home.

***


	10. Chapter 10

_I've got a .38 special up on the shelf_   
_I'll sleep when I'm dead_   
_If I start acting stupid_   
_I'll shoot myself_   
_I'll sleep when I'm dead_

 

"Have you gone completely mad, Control?"

Control slipped his jacket on, adjusted the collar. "Jealous, Robert?"

"Of what? That you can still perform some frat boy stunt when you get enough Scotch in you? That you still feel compelled to show off for your girlfriend, regardless of the risk?"

"I wasn't showing off."

"The hell you weren't. What's next, Control? Fight a bull and present her with the ears? You aren't twenty years old, Control. You're going to … to break a hip or something."

Control regarded his old friend coolly. "What's really bothering you, old son?"

McCall shoved himself away from Control's car, where he'd been sullenly leaning. "You're going to get her killed if you're not careful. Do you know how many eyes were on you tonight? These people are trained observers, Control. And it only takes one of them to notice something, to start a rumor, and it could be all over for both of you."

The blue eyes that leveled on him were glittering dangerous. "Robert. Don't start this again. I'm not giving her up."

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking that you use a little common sense. For God's sake, man, do you even know how you look together?"

"Like people who are very much in love?" Control snapped.

"Yes," Robert snapped back. "That's exactly what you look like. And that's exactly what you must never look like, to anyone."

Control stared at the ground for a moment. When he looked back up, Robert could see the depth of the pain his friend felt. But he said nothing. Instead, the spymaster took out a cigar, and offered another to McCall. He took it, and they completed the ritual of lighting together, strolled very slow around the parking lot.

"It was a good party," Robert finally allowed.

"Yes," Control agreed.

"But also sad. So many people not here."

Control nodded. "I remember them all. Every single name, every single face. They should be here."

"Ghosts in the shadows."

From above, raucous screams of laughter and a thump. Someone else had fallen off the bar.

The two old spies shared a look, and shared their cigars in silence.

***

_He seemed like such a nice guy_   
_To his neighbors_   
_Kept to himself and never bothered them with favors_   
_Nobody ever knew him_   
_There was nobody to see through him_   
_He was left alone to plan the death of his betrayers_

 

Lily Romanov had both elbows on the bar. It was late – or early, depending on your view – and all but a few pockets of die-hards had gone home. She was headed for the door herself, after she finished her drink and took care of a few details.

She saw a flash of motion, a shine of metal, and then there was cold pressure on her neck, yanking her body backwards, off balance, while it choked her.

Lily went with it. She leaned back, putting her weight against the man who stood behind her. She didn’t bring her hands up, though that was her first instinct. There was no room between the chain and her throat, and she knew she didn’t have enough strength to fight him straight on. Instead, she brought her hands down and back, reaching behind her to grab Mickey Kostmayer firmly by the most sensitive portion of his anatomy. She felt him wince, heard his breath hiss, but he needed both hands to maintain the chokehold on the handcuffs. He couldn’t defend himself without releasing her.

"You really think groping me’s going to help you now?" he growled softly, his breath hot on her ear.

The chain crushed against her trachea, compressed her arteries and limited the blood to her brain. He had left her enough room to breathe, for the moment, but nothing else. "No," Lily answered, "but at least I can die listening to you scream like a little girl." She flexed her grip, demonstrating her own strength of position.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn’t snap your pretty little head off."

"Pastrami on rye."

The chain tightened. "That’s it?"

"With horseradish and Swiss." Lily considered, sipping air. "And a pickle."

"Uh, hey, Mickey," Stock said from their right.

"Hey, Stock," Kostmayer answered conversationally. "How’s it going?"

"Uh … great. Everything all right here?"

Mickey glanced at him. He was choking Lily Romanov with a set of handcuffs; she was crushing his balls with both hands. Just another after-hours Company party. "Just fine."

"Lily?" Stock asked.

"It’s okay," the woman wheezed. "If he was going to kill me, he’d have done it by now."

Stock looked at the two of them for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "You guys are way too kinky for me." He refilled his drink and walked away.

"So," Mickey said, his mouth still against her ear, "you don’t think I’ll kill you slow?"

"Not if you’re smart."

"You still haven’t given me one good reason not to."

"Because my boyfriend will kick your ass."

"He went home."

"He’ll find you."

"I’m better than he is."

Romanov made a curious gurgly noise. "He’s more devious than you are."

Mickey considered this. "I’ll chance it."

"I was trying to help you, Mickey," she said calmly. "I was right and you know it."

The pressure on her neck increased, and suddenly there was no air at all. "I think you thought you were helping me, which is the only reason I’m letting you live." Kostmayer shifted his weight, letting her breathe again. "Let go."

Lily hesitated, debating whether to try to make him go first. Then, slowly, her grip on his crotch loosened, though she kept her hands positioned for another grab.

"Don’t you ever do that again," Mickey warned. He unlooped the chain from her neck, let her slump against the bar, and did a credible baseball player’s adjustment of his jeans. "Damn, girl, you go right for it, don’t you?"

She straightened, rubbing her neck. "Never fight fair when you’re fighting for your life." She cleared her throat experimentally. "Buy you a drink, sailor?"

"Oh, that’s the least you can do," he agreed.

Lily leaned across the bar, snagged a bottle, filled her glass and gave it to him. "So how’d it go with Anne?"

Mickey drank, sighed, threw the handcuffs on the bar. "You can have those back. I don’t even want to know why you have handcuffs."

"Well, see, we like to …"

Kostmayer shot one hand up in a ‘halt’ gesture. "I don’t want to know," he repeated firmly.

Lily picked up the cuffs, noted the extended chain. "These aren’t mine."

"No. I broke yours."

"I forgot." She looped the chain around her waist like a belt and locked the cuffs together.

Mickey handed her the key, then tossed the small jewelry box onto the bar as well. "You might as well have this, too."

Lily considered it dispassionately. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

He shrugged. "Keep earrings in it. Smuggle microfilm. I don’t care." She looked puzzled. He reached to pop the box open.

The engagement ring was gone.

"Ahh." Lily claimed the glass and took a long drink. "Well, good. You set a date yet?"

"Don’t push it." Mickey took back the drink and turned, rested his elbows behind him on the bar. "Looks like it was a hell of a party."

"Still a little life in it," Lily said. "Though you did miss a carrier landing that is already legendary."

He raised one eyebrow. "The old man?"

"Uh-huh."

"How drunk was he?"

Lily rolled a hand from side to side. "Drunk enough to do it, sober enough to land it."

"You’re a bad influence on him. You know that, don’t you?"

"Yes."

Mickey finished the drink. "I think I’ll go home and get an ice pack." He adjusted his jeans again. "Damn, girl."

"Sorry. I overreact when I can’t breathe."

"I guess so. Can we drop you somewhere?"

Lily shook her head. "I think I’ll get my recruit to take me home." Mickey frowned; she gestured to a tall, stiff-postured young man in uniform who was slow dancing with Ellen, of all people. Despite their age difference, he seemed genuinely interested in whatever she was saying.

"What is that, eleven this year?"

"Twelve," Lily corrected. "But having teased him all night to get him to sign up, now I have to explain the reality of the situation to him."

Kostmayer snorted. "Which reality, Lil? The one where the old man will break his spine for looking at you?"

"No, the one where I don’t bang rookies."

"So it’s not just me, you’re breaking everybody’s balls tonight."

Lily shrugged. "It’s a hobby."

"Uh-huh. I’m going home."

"Give Annie my love."

Mickey winced, adjusting yet again. "I’m not even sure I’ll be able to give her mine for a while." He walked away slowly, with a gently exaggerated limp.

Lily watched him go, smiling contentedly. Then she poured herself one last drink before she set out to claim her marine.

***

_And oh, the time that I can lay this tired old body down_   
_and feel your fingers feather soft up-on me_   
_the kisses that I live for, the love that lights my way_   
_the happiness that livin' with you brings me._

 

Anne stepped out of her darkroom, expecting that her minder would still be there. Instead, Mickey was sprawled on her couch.

"Where's French?" she asked.

"Sent him home," Mickey answered. "I'll stay and make sure you don't print anything improper. At least until the office sobers up."

"Means you'll have to spend the night," Anne mused. "Could be hazardous."

Kostmayer shrugged. "I'll be careful."

"I meant for me." She slumped down next to him. "So? Did you see her?"

Mickey nodded.

"Did you let her live?"

He was silent for a long moment. "I let her live."

"Thank you."

"You owe me one."

"I'll make it up to you. After I get some sleep."

Mickey nodded again. He was bone-tired, too. "How're the pictures?"

"Come and see," she offered. They both sat still for a minute, gathering the strength to move. Then, stiffly, they went to the dark room.

Mickey looked over the proof sheets slowly. Many of the pictures were throw-aways, blurs of crowds, misframed, or simply black. But some of the others were, even to his untrained eye, spectacular. He took his time, enjoyed them all. "Do you have enough for a book?" he asked.

"I might. I'll know better once I make some prints." She drew out a page. "Check this out."

Kostmayer leaned over the tiny square prints to look where she pointed.

Lily Romanov, standing on the Wall, jeans and a tight little t-shirt, a bottle of vodka dangling from her fingers, the sun bright on her face. Lily Romanov, unguarded, happy. She was, Mickey realized with a start, a truly gorgeous woman.

"You can't publish this one," he said.

"No. But it's her. It's really her."

"Print it," Mickey said quietly. "Print a big one."

"For you?" Anne asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Kostmayer shook his head. "No. For her lover."

Anne stared at him. "Who's her lover?"

"I can't tell you."

"What do you mean, you can't tell me?"

"I can't tell you."

"Mickey!"

"I can't, Anne. I'm not teasing you, I would if I could, but I can't."

Anne thought about it, then sighed. "All right. But …"

"No."

After a pause, she gave him a small, wicked smile. "You want to fight about it?"

Kostmayer grinned. "Sure. Why not?" He put his arms around her waist, drew her very close. "Or we could just skip to the making up."

She rested her head wearily against his. "Or we could just skip to the rolling over and falling asleep."

"You might have a point there."

"Come on." She pulled him to his feet. "We'll fight about it tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

They went to bed.

***

_They would kill me for a cigarette_   
_But I don't even wanna die just yet_   
_There has to be an invisible sun_   
_It gives its heat to everyone_   
_There has to be an invisible sun_   
_That gives us hope when the whole day's done_

 

Control waited quietly, smoking a cigar, in Lily’s apartment. He was physically tired but emotionally restless; it was one of those nights when he knew it would do no good to try to sleep without her by his side. He left the lights off, lit a few candles, put on quiet music to soothe himself. None of it helped much.

But the apartment itself did. Make a home for yourself, he’d asked, and instead she’d made a home for both of them. The living room had been plain white a few months ago. Now the walls were deep gold, the color of old leather. Scott's ratty furniture was gone, replaced by a deep burgundy couch, a deep green wing-back chair. Antique wooden furniture completed the room; it resembled a fine old gentleman's club, or perhaps something from 'Casablanca'. It was not feminine, but it was warm, comfortable, and lovely.

Lily's despised red trunk had been relegated to basement storage.

Control had expected that she wouldn’t – couldn't – leave the party until the last bottle was empty. He had expected to wait. Instead, she arrived barely an hour after he did.

Lily locked the door, came to the couch to kiss him. He could see her glimmering with excitement. The dancing, the laughing, the party in general had her wound like a spring. Yet she sensed his mood immediately, and hers came down to meet it. "What’s wrong, kedves?"

"Nothing," he sighed. He drew her onto his lap. "Nothing now. Did you have fun?"

"I always have fun."

He frowned at the red marks on her neck. "What’s this?" He pulled gently on the handcuffs wrapped around her waist. "Kostmayer," he stated. His voice went cold. "Where is he?"

"We worked it out," Lily said. She caught his face in her hands. "Hey. I started it. Leave it alone." She added a shrug. "Besides, he may have more marks on him than I do."

Control raised one eyebrow, but he grudgingly let it be – at least for the moment. He lifted her to her feet and stood up. "Come here," he said quietly. He wrapped his arms around her and they danced, as they had wanted to dance all night.

"Mmmmm," Lily purred. "This is so much better."

Control nodded his agreement. Here, right here, was where she belonged. In their home, in his arms. "Did they work things out? Mickey and Anne?"

"Well, she took the ring, anyhow."

"My little yenta." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Can I get you a ring, Lily?"

She leaned back to study his eyes. He was only half-teasing. "No. Thank you."

"Hmmm. Well, perhaps something else, then." He struggled to reach around her into his pocket. "This is for you. Something appropriate to the occasion."

Lily frowned as he placed a set of car keys in her hand. "Umm?"

"There is also a car to go with them," Control said logically. "It’s in garage on the corner."

She blinked. "You bought me a car?"

"Yes. Well, technically, you bought it, the money came out of your account. But will all be back in a month or so. A little at a time, of course."

"I don’t need a car …"

"You’re going to be in the city at least half of your time on this new assignment."

"… there are buses and cabs, and rentals if I really need one …"

"It’s a beautiful car, Lily. I couldn’t resist it."

"Then why didn’t you buy it for yourself?"

Control scowled fiercely. "Because of that stupid import ban from Carter. Government executives are expected to drive domestic cars. To support the economy. Remember?" She frowned, puzzled, and he touched the keys in her hand. "Look, love."

She looked. "You bought me a Mercedes? I can’t …"

"The smaller sedan. Four doors, black, with the diplomatic package. Body armor, bullet-proof glass, re-sealing tires …"

"I can’t explain that on my salary, even if I wanted to ..."

He sighed patiently. "The West German representative to the U.N. has a limo for official business and a Mercedes sedan for personal use. Naturally he gets a new model every year, and his cast-offs make their way to mid-level diplomats in the delegation. This one is three years old, and was most recently owned by a Swiss attaché who has just divorced his fourth wife to marry his pregnant mistress. The wife got everything, and since she’s rather bitter, she was more than willing to part with the car cheap."

Lily gazed at him steadily. "Is that the truth or the cover story?"

"You are very cynical, my dear." Lily raised a single eyebrow. "The car is beautiful," Control continued, not quite answering the question. "It’s in pristine condition, it’s sleek, it’s quick, it’s elegant. It’s beautiful. It reminded me of you. I had to have it."

"But I don’t need …"

"I know you don’t need it!" he exclaimed in exasperation. "I didn’t need the last lock from the Berlin Wall, either, but you moved hell and earth to get it for me, didn’t you? I want you to have the car. Just take the damn thing." He folded her hand over the keys. "Just take it because I want you to have it."

Lily stared at him for a long moment. Her old, deep-seated aversion to accept anything that felt like charity ran directly against her equally deep commitment to make him happy at any price. Finally, uncertainly, she shrugged. "Okay."

Control blew out a deep breath, nodded in satisfaction. "Good. I have some people I want you to pick up in it tomorrow."

"Ah, I see." She smiled her new understanding. "Thank you." She kissed him gently, settled against his shoulder. They moved together, slow, easy, calm. After a moment, she said, "What else is bothering you?"

"Nothing."

Lily looked up. " _Kedves_."

He shrugged. "What could possibly be bothering me? We won the Cold War. I gave my whole life to it, but we won. And for my reward …" he touched her cheek possessively " …for my reward I got to dance with my girl in public for a whole three minutes. What could possibly be wrong with that? What more could I possibly want?"

"Oh, love …"

Control shook his head impatiently. "This is your night, Lily. Yours and all the others. You can still have a whole life past the Wall. But mine … damn it. I don’t want to spoil this day for you."

"Shhhh," Lily soothed. She slid out of his arms, took his hand. "Come lay with me under the stars."

I want real stars, he thought mournfully, and sighed. He might as well want the moon. He nodded and followed her to the bedroom. As he stripped off his clothes unceremoniously, he looked around and remembered anew why he loved this woman. The walls were dove gray, the ceiling the color of storm clouds. The bed had a cast metal canopy frame, draped with scarves of blue and gray and green, a few of gold, a bower. The bed covers were sea covers foam green, as were the drapes, and when they were drawn the room was night-dark even at high noon. There was no room for anything but the bed, two tiny night stands, and a dresser that ran the length of the wall, and yet the room was cozy, inviting. A place to sleep, if your career forced you to sleep day or night, and a place for lovers. But the ceiling was the most wondrous thing of all.

Hidden just below the ceiling were two tiny black lights, and flecked across the dark ceiling, invisible in normal light, were dots of florescent paint. With the lights off, the ceiling lit up in a galaxy of artificial stars.

Control climbed under the covers, rolled his lover into his arms, and settled back to look at the stars – the only stars they would probably ever lie together under. "I’m sorry, Lily. I know you were having a good night."

"I still am, _kedves_. I’m here with you."

"Hmmmm." He had to admit, here under the stars with her skin against his, he could feel the sadness draining out of him. He sighed. "Tell me about the other life, Lily."

"Hmm?"

"The one where we lay in our yard under real stars. The one with the house on the beach, and the dogs and the children. The other life. Spin a dream for me, Lily."

"Ah, yes." She shifted against his shoulder. "Well, the school called again today, little Alpha’s starting fights in the lunch room again, and Beta’s been making book in the teacher’s lounge. Charlie got her ears pierced by one of her little friends and they’re getting infected, so you’re going to have to buy her some real gold earrings …"

Control laughed. "Have we settled on names, then?"

"Well, they’re not official names, just their designations so we can keep them straight. Once we got past a dozen, it was an absolute necessity."

"A dozen," he repeated, bemused.

"Hey, if you’re going to dream, you might as well go all out."

"We’re gonna need a bigger house than the one I’d imagined," he said ruefully.

"Imagining bigger is easy," Lily answered. "Just imagine the contractors are honest."

"That’s a pretty big stretch."

She chuckled warmly. "Anything you want, love. Tell me and it’s yours."

Control sobered. "In the fantasy, or in real life?"

"Either," she answered quietly.

He tightened his arms around her. "Tell me …" He paused, struggled for the right words. "Tell me that it’s still out there. Tell me that there’s some hope that some day we’ll have the dream."

Lily rolled over to look at him. "I told you before. I will quit, if that’s what you want."

Control considered, then shook his head. "It’s not what you want."

"I want you to be happy."

He drew her head down, wrapped his arms very tight around her. "Just be here with me, Lily. It’s enough. It’s enough for now."

***

_I see skies of blue and clouds of white_   
_The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night_   
_And I think to myself, what a wonderful world_

 

From a speech made by Willy Brandt on 10th November 1989: "This is a beautiful day after a long journey. But it is only a stage. We have not yet reached our goal. We still havea long way to go."

***

THE END

 

 

**Appendix: The Fall of the Wall Party Soundtrack (partial listing)**

AC/DC "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap"  
Armstrong, Louis “What a Wonderful World”  
The Beatles “Back in the USSR”  
Beaver Brown Band "On the Dark Side"  
Blue Oyster Cult “Veteran Of The Pyschic Wars”  
Bowie, David “Heroes” (from Theresa)  
Browne, Jackson “Lives In the Balance” (from Theresa)  
Buffet, Jimmy “Fins”  
The Buoys "Timothy"  
Church, The “Memories in Future Tense” (from Theresa)  
The Clash “Rock the Casbah”  
Collins, Phil "Don't Let Him Steal Your Heart Away"  
Collins, Phil “Don’t Lose My Number”  
Collins, Phil “In the Air Tonight”  
Croce, Jim “One Less Set of Footsteps”  
deBurgh, Chris "Moonlight and Vodka" (from Anna)  
Denver, John "Back Home Again"  
Eagles, The “Those Shoes”  
Easton, Sheena “For Your Eyes Only”  
Flack, Roberta “Killing Me Softly”  
Frey, Glenn “Smuggler’s Blues”  
Frey, Glenn “Who’s Been Sleeping in My Bed?”  
Gabriel, Peter "Games Without Frontiers" (from Anna)  
Gabriel, Peter "Wallflower" (from Pen)  
Gaye, Marvin and Tammy Terrell "Ain't No Mountain High Enough"  
Genesis “The Conqeror”  
Genesis “Follow You, Follow Me”  
Genesis “Land of Confusion”  
Golden Earring “Radar Love”  
Golden Earring “Twilight Zone”  
Guns N’ Roses “Paradise City”  
Guns N Roses “Welcome to the Jungle”  
Hagar, Sammy “I Can’t Drive 55”  
Hagar, Sammy “The Girl Gets Around”  
Hart, Cory “Sunglasses at Night”  
Head, Murray “One Night in Bangkok”  
Henley, Don “All She Wants to Do is Dance”  
Henley, Don “New York Minute”  
The Hollies “Long Cool Woman”  
Idol, Billy “Rebel Yell”  
Jefferson Starship “Assassin”  
Joel, Billy “Goodnight Saigon”  
Joel, Billy “Only the Good Die Young”  
Joel, Billy “You May Be Right”  
John, Elton “Nikita”  
John, Elton "Someone Saved my Life Tonight"  
Journey “Faithfully”  
Klark Kent (a.k.a. Stewart Copeland) “Strange Things Happen”  
Laing, Shona "Soviet Snow" (from BJ)  
Lennon, John "Imagine"  
Lynyrd Skynyrd “Gimme Three Steps”  
Lynyrd Skynyrd “Sweet Home Alabama”  
Martika “Toy Soldiers”  
McCartney, Paul and Wings “Live and let Die”  
Mellencamp, John “Paper in Fire”  
Mellencamp, John “Crumblin' Down"  
Midnight Oil “Beds Are Burning”  
Mike & The Mechanics “Silent Running”  
Molly Hatchet “Flirting with Disaster”  
Palmer, Robert “I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On”  
Palmer, Robert “Simply Irrestistable”  
Pink Floyd "The Wall" Pink Floyd (from Nina)  
Police, The “Every Breath You Take”  
Police, The "Invisible Sun" (from Pen)  
Presley, Elvis “Suspicious Minds”  
Queen “Another One Bites the Dust”  
Queen “Keep Yourself Alive”  
Queen “Killer Queen”  
Queen “Princes of the Universe”  
Queen “Who Wants to Live Forever”  
Rice, Tim from Evita, “I’d Be Surprisingly Good for You”  
Rivers, Johnny "Secret Agent Man" (from Pat D.)  
Seger, Bon “Her Strut”  
Shaw, Tommy “Girls With Guns”  
Simon, Carly “The Spy Who Loved Me”  
Simon & Garfunkle "Homeward Bound"  
Sinatra, Frank “My Way”  
Sisters of Mercy "Dominion/Mother Russia" (from Theresa)  
Sisters of Mercy “Lucretia My Reflection” (from Theresa)  
Springsteen, Bruce "Born to Run"  
Springsteen, Bruce “Cover Me”  
Sting "Russians"  
Sweet "Ballroom Blitz"  
Tears for Fears “Everybody Wants to Rule the World”  
Thin Lizzy “The Boys are Back in Town”  
Thin Lizzy “Soldier of Fortune”  
The Three Degrees “When Will I See You Again”  
Three Dog Night, "Mama Told Me Not to Come"  
Timbuk 3 “The Future’s so Bright”  
Tommy James & The Shondells “I Think We’re Alone Now”  
Tull, Jethro “She Said She Was a Dancer” (from Pen)  
Tyler, Bonnie “Holding Out for a Hero”  
The Vogues “Turn Around, Look at Me”  
Was (Not Was) “Dressed to be Killed”  
“What’s Up”  
The Who “Behind Blue Eyes”  
Zevon, Warren "The Envoy" (from Pen)  
Zevon, Warren "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead"  
Zevon, Warren “Lawyers, Guns and Money"  
Zevon, Warren "Roland the Headless Thompson-Gunner" (from Pen)

**Torture Cuts**

B-52’s “Love Shack” (from Pen)  
Barnes & Barnes “Fishheads” (from Pen)  
Boone, Debbie “You Light up My Life”  
Herman’s Hermits "I'm Henry VIII, I Am" (from Paige)  
Jacks, Terry “Seasons in the Sun” (from BJ)  
Johns, Sammy “Chevy Van” (from BJ)  
Los Del Rio "La Macarena" (from Mike)  
Manilow, Barry “Copacabana”  
McGovern, Maureen “The Morning After”  
Murphy, Michael Martin “Wildfire”  
Peter, Paul & Mary “Puff the Magic Dragon” (from Theresa)  
Ronnie and the Daytonas “GTO” (from Vicki)  
Sherman, Richard M. and Robert B. “It’s A Small World After All” (from Grace)  
The Starland Vocal Band “Afternoon Delight” (from BJ)

**Author's Note:**

> Special Thanks to everyone from the list who suggested songs for the soundtrack of this story. I appreciate your contributions! And as always, my deepest thanks to Anna, who keeps me going with her encouragement, and to Paige, for her time and dedication, keen eye and friendship.


End file.
